The Lighting Of The Fires
by Duchess Daymaun
Summary: Never expecting to snag a husband like her two pretty sisters did, Relena planned on the life of a spinster. So when Lord Quatre Winner offered for her hand in marriage, how could she say no? Even if he loved her sister more than she. RxQ
1. Chapter 1

AN: I read a Regency fic in the Sailor Moon section and I though I should give it a try. I researched only a bit so forgive me if I don't get some of the things right. 

**The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 1)**

            "Where is she?" Lady Peacecraft said in ascending tones as she stalked down the upstairs hall. She had just glanced into the library, and now she closed the door of the music room with just the suggestion of a slam. Lady Peacecraft was known for her forbearance in times of stress. Her daughters, the ladies Sally and Sylvia, had reason to appreciate this quality in their mother. She had a reputation of being just and fair-minded, and her charm had opened many a door, usually closed to widows, no matter what their status. She was as popular with Queen Charlotte as she was with the Prince Regent, and even the unhappy Princess Caroline had, before she fled London for the Continent, found Lady Peacecraft one of the few peeresses with whom she felt at ease. Consequently it was a source of constant annoyance to her ladyship that despite her reputation for soothing the most turbulent of waters and setting the most difficult matters to right, she had little or, rather, no success in rendering her youngest daughter, Lady Relena, fully cognizant of her position in life and, more specifically, this household.

            "Where is she?" Lady Peacecraft repeated, a kindling eye on the stairs to the third floor and continuing up to the attic. Her question was, of course, rhetorical, for she knew full well that her recalcitrant daughter was in the attic, unmindful of the dust and probably near one of the windows, which meant that she would have displaced boxes, pushed piles of dusty curtains aside, and in the process dirtied her gown and herself.

            "Neither of your sisters," Lady Peacecraft said icily to Relena, who was indeed by the window in the attic, "ever would have dreamed of coming up here! What, pray, is the matter with the library or the parlor?" Without giving her youngest child a chance to reply, she continued, "Your grandmother will be here this afternoon at four, which gives you no more than an hour to prepare yourself. I vow, you are dust from head to foot! Your gown is filthy! There are smudges on your cheek – one would think you were a ragamuffin playing in the dirt rather than my daughter!" She allowed the suggestion of a sob to color her tones. "I am glad your poor father could not see you. I cannot begin to imagine what he would have thought!"

            "I am sure" – Relena put down her book and looked up at her mother – "that he would not have thought anything, Mama. He would not have known me, since he died a month before I was born."

            "Oh!" Lady Peacecraft exclaimed, clasping her hands to her bosom in a gesture redolent of Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse. "How can you be so insensitive as to remind me?"      

            Relena said, "What do you want with me now, Mother?"

            "Did I not tell you this morning after you returned from riding that your grandmother would be here at five this afternoon and that she wishes to see you?"

            "It is not four yet," Relena pointed out reasonably. "It lacks two hours of being five. When I came up here, I fully intended to come downstairs at four so that Lucy could dress me."

            "Can you imagine that it will take Lucy but an hour to dress    

            Relena said, "What do you want with me now, Mother?"

            "Did I not tell you this morning after you returned from riding that your grandmother would be here at five this afternoon and that she wishes to see you?"

            "It is not four yet," Relena pointed out reasonably. "It lacks two hours of being five. When I came up here, I fully intended to come downstairs at four so that Lucy could dress me."

            "Can you imagine that it will take Lucy but an hour to dress _you_?" Lady Peacecraft demanded sarcastically. "Look at your hair and the dirt all over you. You will have to bathe, and your hair must be washed and you know how long it takes to dry, bring so thick and worn far too long. You must come down from there this minute. I will not have your grandmother tell me again that it is shocking the way you go about. You could be some blacksmith's daughter or -,"

            "Please, Mama." Relena rose reluctantly. "I will come, though why I must be presented at court and brought out, I cannot know. I am out already – at least I have been seen in and around London and I have acquaintances here, and despite what Grandmother says, I am reasonably sure that in or out, no many is going to offer for me. You have said that yourself often enough, and so have Sally and Sylvia. They have no hesitated to quote the opinions of their friends, and also those of their husbands. I knew very well that I am not a matrimonial prospect, and I do wish I could return to the country, where I was comfortable. I am entirely reconciled to being a maiden lady, and there is certainly more room to ride at home."

            "Neither your grandmother nor myself," Lady Peacecraft said firmly, if not quite truthfully, "are prepared to write you off at eighteen. You come from excellent stock and your portion is large. I, or rather we, are of the opinion that some young man will be delighted to offer for you."

            "I have seen no evidence of that delight. " Relena rose, futilely brushing some cobwebs from her skirt and clutching to her bosom the book she had been reading. "We know quite a few young men at the Hall, and while they have clustered around my sisters like so many bees around honeysuckle, at least before they were married, I have yet to notice any clustering around me. The only compliments I have received were regarding my seat on the horse and…oh, yes, young Mr. Beauchamps said he was pleased because I did not scream when I fell into the water jump. I do not imagine that suggests any lurking desire to become my husband."

            "You are pleased to be ironic," Lady Peacecraft commented. She wished that she did not have to look up at her daughter. It was much easier to give a set-down to one smaller than oneself, and Relena could give her at least three inches in height. She continued doggedly. "You do remind me of your father in that, to be sure. I will tell you that it is no one's fault but your own that you are not as graceful as your sister Sylvia, or as charming. You do not make the effort. You sit quietly in a corner, and how often have I come to find you surreptitiously reading 0 when you imagine that you are unobserved."

            "I never imagine that I am unobserved, Mama. I _know_ I am unobserved. I could read the whole of Mr. Boswell's _Biography of Samuel Johnson_ and no one would be the wiser. No one looks my way when Sylvia is in the room."

            "Sylvia is married."

            "I have been in her drawing room when there are unmarried young men about, and they still look at her unceasingly. The only things that Sylvia and I have in common are our voices."

            "That is true. I mean," Lady Peacecraft said crossly, "that they are amazingly similar, but that is no unusual. My voice was similar to that of my sister." Lady Peacecraft frowned and continued. "I have told her over and over again that she ought not to court the attentions of young unmarried men – but that is aside from the point. Come down and have Lucy see what she can do with you."

            "Very well, Mama." Relena followed her mother out of the attic. "But I think we are in agreement that it will not be much."

            Precisely at the hour of four, Relena stood in the center of the drawing room feeling acutely uncomfortable as, at the direction of her grandmother, the dignified Countess of Sanq, she pivoted for the second time. "Very well, you may stand still," said the countess, fixing a glacial gray eye on her. In a tone that matched and even exceeded her gaze in coldness, she said, "I can see no resemblance to my son, either."

            Lady Peacecraft said with a matching chill, "She has Edward's eyes. If you will look at them, you will see that they are precisely the same shade of cerulean blue."

            The countess raised a quizzing glass, which magnified one eye in the most startling manner. "Well, perhaps," she finally allowed. "As I have always said, there is precious little else to remind me of poor, poor Edward. I thought she might grow to resemble her sisters more, as she became older. Unfortunately that has no happened. How did she get to be so heavy? I do not recall that she was so heavy the last time I was here."

            "I do not know," Lady Peacecraft sighed. "She does not have a great appetite. Again, I would say that she takes after your side of the family." There was a certain melancholy satisfaction in her tone that brought her an icy glare from the countess. 

            Glancing down at her own lithe shape, the latter said, "It is possible that she takes after her uncle. Arthur was on the heavy side. He ate a great deal, as I remember. He also had two chins. She glared at Relena. "Hold your head up, girl."

            Relena had a strong impulse to refuse. Words had been piling up in her throat for the past quarter of an hour. She would have given much to tell her tiny but commanding grandmother that she was being unkind, and futility of the presentation they had in mind, but the repercussions wee to dreadful to contemplate. One never, never, contradicted her grandmother; one never even made a comment. One was required to listen and eventually to murmur a soft yes or no in answer to questions that rode roughshod over one's feelings. Generally the countess did not question. She stated.

            She said now, "I have already made arrangements for the presentation. I have also made appointments with the mantua maker. I have decided upon Mrs. Bell. The woman gets entirely too much notice in her husband's monthly journal, but she is not without taste, and she is particularly adept at clothing young women with difficult figures and no claim to beauty. I have explained Relena's problems to her, and she has already begun to make the preliminary sketches. I have also told her to prepared one of her famous Circassian corsets for Relena. Why are you make such a face, child?"

            "I…I do not find corsets comfortable," Relena dared to protest.

            "I am sure they are not, but you have no choice, not with your protruding belly. The gown will have to be white for the presentation. However, the ball gown might have a Grecian border at the hem and perhaps some decoration down the middle to minimize her unfortunate contours. Her hair will have to be cut and shaped. I will have my hairdresser attend to that.

            "Or mine," Lady Peacecraft suggested.

            She received a lightning glance from her mother-in-law. "Well, possibly," she allowed. "I do not believe we will let her wear jewelry."  
            "No, certainly not," agreed Lady Peacecraft. "I would not even allow Sylvia to wear jewelry for her first ball."

            "It is a pity your girls are not more of a sameness," the countess said tartly, quite as if she were blaming her daughter-in-law for the difference.

            "I had not the ordering of that," Lady Peacecraft said defensively.

            "No, 'tis a pity," the countess returned coldly. "I will procure her a voucher for Almack's, once the presentation is over." She looked at Relena and shook her head. "Were it not for Jane…"

            "What about Jane?" Lady Peacecraft demanded sharply. "You will not be telling me that all this…this pother is based on one of Jane's predictions?"

            The countess said, "But of course, it is, my dear. As she did with your other two daughters, she has predicted that Relena will marry within three months of her presentation at Court. I have asked that that take place at the beginning of May, which means that she ought to be off your hands by August at the latest. The wedding will be held at St. James' Church, and I, of course, will have the reception at my house."

            "Ouf!" Relena could not help the exclamation that escaped her. She did manage to bite down a hysterical giggle, but the first sound had been enough to bring her grandmother's icy gaze back to her face. "What did you wish to say, Relena?"

            Relena swallowed convulsively. "My…my two sisters are…are neither one like me. It…it is possible that Jane did not take that into account."

            "Jane," the countess said coldly, "is the great-granddaughter of a woman who was executed for witchcraft. Her powers have been passed down to several members of her family, and Jane's predictions have always been uncannily accurate. I was at my wit's end when I asked her about you because, quite frankly, I could not imagine that you would ever have the slightest chance of being wed. Contrary to my expectations, Jane said…but I have already told you what she said. Your first appointment will be at three tomorrow. Your mother will accompany you, of course. I adjure you both, do not be late."

            Relena waited until her grandmother had gone. Then turning to her mother, she said succinctly, "Damn Jane."

            For once Lady Peacecraft did not protest either Relena's frankness. "I have more than a feeling that that must have taken place already. The woman is, as your grandmother has stated, most uncannily accurate, and not only at predicting marriages. She warned me regarding your poor father's early demise, and on other mattes as well. Indeed, I would not be surprised to learn that she and the devil are on intimate terms."

            It occurred to Relena that the countess, too, might enjoy that infernal intimacy. However, despite all the portents, she was positive that the devil was wrong this time.

            On the third Wednesday of May 1816, the venerable halls of Almack's were filled with those members of the ton fortunate enough to pass the scrutiny of its hostesses and thus procure a voucher for the weekly subscription ball. A great many gentlemen were on the floor going through the paces of a country dance. Others stood at the sidelines of the ballroom scrutinizing those young ladies who were dancing. Often their scrutiny was aided by quizzing glasses. None of those gentlemen – at least none of the handsome young men who thronged the halls – had so much as a glance at the several rows of chairs, where other young ladies, accompanied by their chaperones, sat stiffly at attention. Though they were doing their best to look pleasant, hope, never very strong in the first place, dwindled quickly.

            Relena, who had been one of this unhappy group for a half hour this night, and for several hours the preceding Wednesday, did not join them in casting wistful glances at the floor. Despite the prodding of Lady Howard, a distant connection of her late father, she sat reading Maria Edgeworth's _Essay on Irish Bulls_, which she was enjoying even more than _Castle Rockrent_. They were both older books – at least sixteen or seventeen years had passed since their publication – but they had escaped her attention until recently, and as she read, she was having trouble in keeping herself from laughing aloud.

            "Relena," Lady Howard snapped. "No one will ask you to dance if you sit there looking down at your book!"

            Relena managed to swallow an annoyed rejoinder. She said, "No one, Lady Howard, will ask me whether I look up or down – and I must prefer to read. I an _enjoying_ my book."

            "You are not here to read," Lady Howard persisted.

            "Judging from my experience last Wednesday, when I did not read, I am not here to dance, either. It does become exceptionally boring just to sit here for two hours having nothing to do."

            "Some gentlemen might…" Lady Howard began hopefully.

            "I beg your pardon, Lady Howard," Relena said bluntly. "but some gentlemen will not. There are girls here on the chairs who have much the advantage of me in looks, and no one asks them, either."

            "They do not have the advantage of you," Lady Howard responded in a low voice. 'If you were thinner, you would be exceptionally well-looking."

            "I am not thinner," Relena replied with an uncompromising finality. She stubbornly turned her gaze on her book.

            Quatre Raberba Winner, Lord Marne, standing at the side of the dance floor, fixed a lackluster stare on the numerous young women, now in the midst of a cotillion. With a slight shudder he turned away, thinking wistfully of the card room. He had more than half a mind to go there at once, despite the fact that he had faithfully promised his sister, Iria, and his godmother, Lady Cavendish, that he would ask some female to dance.

            "Will you remain secluded for the rest of your life?" Lady Cavendish had questioned, speaking with the freedom of one who had known him since babyhood.

            Actually it was not a question, but an order disguised as a question. In effect she had been saying, "as the last of the Marnes, Quatre, it is your duty to marry again." She had gone on to say in actuality, "I know you loved poor dear Dorothy to distraction, and I know you were eagerly anticipating the birth of your first child. It is extremely unfortunately that she died in childbed, and the poor baby with her. Yes, I know it was a boy, a double misfortune. I do not say that you should forget her or your love – but it has been close on three years, and it is time you thought of the title. It would be a shame to let it lapse."

            "Damn the title!" he muttered to that imposing presence situated in his mind's eye. He sent a brief prayer to the Almighty, thanking Him for giving her the touch of quinsy that had prevented her from accompanying him this night and choosing eligible partners for him. He sent up another prayer because his sister had also been prevented from attending the ball. Her husband truly hated Almack's and the hostesses, whom he characterized collectively as being "too damned full of themselves."

            Lord Marne agreed with him wholeheartedly, even though the ladies had been exceedingly cordial to him. Priness Lieven's greeting had hinted at something more, did he wish to avail himself of the opportunity. That it was a heavily weighted opportunity. That it was predicated on his connection with the House of Lords and the hope that her artful questions might extract some bit of useful information that she might pass on to her husband, the Russian ambassador, did lessen the excitement she promised. However, he had smilingly appeared not to comprehend her charming smile and beguiling words, and he could only hope that he had not made an enemy for life. The time was past when he wanted to complicate his life with a dangerous intrigue.

            Just as that thought let his mind, he replaced it with another that certainly should have occurred to him earlier. Since neither his godmother nor his sister were here this night, why had he come in the first place? He did not want to look for a bride; he did not want to be married again, not yet. He would leave now. He started for the door, but unfortunately he caught sight of Lady Craven, a dear friend of his sister's. Had she seen him? If she had not, there was every possibility that she would see him as he passed her on his way out, and no doubt his early withdrawl would be communicated to Iria, whom he had promised faithfully that he would attend the ball and remain there for at least an hour.

            Muttering an oath under his breath, he sent a harried glance around the room and caught sight of the unfortunately females who occupied the chairs. As he regarded them he was aware of the battery of eyes impaling him, anxious eyes, unhappy eyes, the eyes of those young ladies who had come to Almack's in the vain hope of being asked to dance. He would dance with one of them, and consequently Lady craven, damn her, could tell his sister that Quatre had done his duty.

            It was a duty that grew ever more irksome the closer he drew to those hapless, hopeless females. And then, as he, feeling uncomfortably like some Oriental potentate trying to decide which houri he would select for the night, edged nearer to the chairs, he saw one who was outstandingly different from the others! It was not that she was prettier. He had no notion of how she looked. Her head was bent, her eyes fixed on a book! Surely, he decided, it must be an affectation. No young lady in receipt of a prized voucher to Almack's would be sitting there reading, rather than casting out lures, such lures as she might possess! However, this damsel, her eyes fastened on the printed page, seemed totally unaware of her surroundings, totally oblivious to the fact that she was there for a purpose, a purpose that had nothing to do with reading a book!

            Obviously she could not be well-chaperoned; else she would have been sternly reprimanded and the book put away. He glanced at her companion and recognized Lady Howard, with whom he had a slight acquaintance. Her head was bent so that he could not catch her eye, but obviously she must be baffled. Undoubtedly, her charge had a will of her own. It occurred to him that he would like to discover the identity of this surprisingly willful young woman.

            Relena, happily perusing a delightful if rather sad little tale of a cruel Welsh schoolmaster, a hapless Irish lad, and his kind schoolmate, was being by turns sympathetic and indignant. Miss Edgeworth wrote with great sympathy for the Irish, and that pleased her. She was put in mind of Tim O'Toole from County Cork, her riding master, whom she had greatly missed after his return to Ireland.

            She was in the midst of shaking her head over some piece of injustice meted out to the Irish boy by the school master when a cough caused her to look up swiftly, expecting…she was not sure what. She had entertained a vision of one of her mother's friends finding her so engaged, but even as she looked up, she realized that it had not been a feminine but a masculine cough, and then she stopped thinking about coughs entirely as she met aquamarine eyes set in a face that called up the description "classically handsome." In fact, his features might even be termed poetically handsome. The aquamarine eyes were large, the nose was beautifully shaped, the mouth was firm, the lips neither too full nor too thin but achieving a perfect median between the two. There was a sharp cleft in his chin, and she noted that his complexion was olive and his cheekbones high. His hair was platinum blond, and she had the impression of a felicitous blend of Arabian mixed with English. Having reached this conclusion, she belatedly realized that she was staring at him, and certainly he was staring at her. She blushed and darted a side glance at Lady Howard, finding her nodding.

            "But what are you reading?" the gentleman asked in a low, pleasant voice, his gaze briefly on the somnolent chaperone.

            "It's called _An Essay on Irish Bulls_. Maria Edgeworth's the author."

            "Ah, she also wrote _Castle Rackrent_, am I right?" he asked.

            "Yes, you are." Relena nodded. "That is her most famous book, I believe, but she has written quite a few others. This one has a partially Irish background. I think she once lived in Ireland."

            "I have the impression that she still travels back and forth between England and Ireland," he commented.

            "Do you know her?" Relena asked interestedly.

            "My wife used to be quite fond of her works," he explained.

            "Oh, really?" Relena was conscious of a strange little prick of disappointment. Yet of course he would be married, a man of that age. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties, and he was so singularly attractive! And why should she, of all people, be disappointed? She could not hope to interest him. Probably he was on his way to meet his wife.

            He said, "Do you intend to read for the entire evening?"

            She decided on the truth, for there was no reason to dissemble. After all, she was speaking to a married man, not that she would have dissembled before – well, she might have in hopes of being asked to dance. That was, of course, a very forlorn hope, a foolish hope, given the appearance of the man standing beside her. She said, "I do not believe I will have an opportunity to do much else save read."

            "You might dance." He smiled. "In fact, I believe that the next dance will be a country dance. Might I hope that you will be my partner?"

            "Me?" Relena said ungrammatically.

            Lady Howard, who had woken in time to hear the last part of this exchange, mentally cringed but said brightly, "Of course she will. She will be delighted."

            Relena visited a swift, annoyed look at her chaperone, and then the lady's eagerness brought a smile to her face, a natural smile full of amusement. "I would be delighted to be your partner for the country dance, sir. Except…" 

            "Except what?" he questioned.  
            "Well I am a much better horsewoman than I am a dancer. I find the patterns of the dance rather confusing."

            "My dear child," Lady Howard protested. "She is all unspoiled, my lord."

            "So I see," he said. He added, "Perhaps you will do me the kindness of introducing us, Lady Howard."

            "You have not been introduced?" she asked confusedly, and reddened. "Oh dear, I…I fear I am to blame. My…er, Relena, my dear, may I present the Earl of Marne. Your lordship, this is Lady Relena Peacecraft.

            "Lady Relena Peacecraft" –he bowed- "I am delighted to make your acquaintance."

            "And I yours, my lord," she murmured.

            "May I inscribe my name on one of the spokes of your fan?" he asked, pointing to the little ivory fan that lay folded in her lap.

            "You may, of course" –she held it up-"but it is really not necessary. There are no others, and I will remember the next country dance. I will be sitting right here."

            "My dear…" Lady Howard protested softly.

            "I think I will inscribe it, anyway," he said, Taking her fan, he produced a small pencil, with which he wrote his name in a flowing script that Relena thought was the most beautiful handwriting she had ever seen.

            "I thank you, my lord," she murmured as he returned the fan.

            "It is I who must thank you, Lady Relena." Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss on it. "I will be back directly they announce the country dance." He smiled and bowed.

            "Oh, my dearest Relena," Lady Howard breathed as he strode away. "Have you any notion of your good fortune?"

            "Yes," Relena said as she stared at her fan, thinking that she would keep it until her dying day.

            Meanwhile a veritable babble of conversation had broken out among the girls sitting to her left, her right, behind and before her.

            "Oh, you are fortunate," sighed a plain young woman sitting next to Lady Howard. "Imagine dancing with Lord Marne."

            Meeting yearning blue eyes set in a plain little face topped by mousy brown curls, Relena said, "Do you know him, then?" 

            "My brother knew him at Eton," the girl said. "He came home with him once. He was handsome even then."

            "He is a very attractive young man," Lady Howard said. She added, "He comes from an old and extremely distinguished family, my dear Relena."

            "I knew his wife," a girl in front of them turned around to say. "At least, my sister did. They were in school together."

            "An extremely foolish young woman," Lady Howard frowned.

            "Yes, she was," the girl said before Relena could question her chaperone. "My sister said that even in school she would be walking around in a rainstorm reciting poetry."

            "But she was beautiful," the girl, with the brother, murmured.

            Caught by the past tense, Relena said, "Is his wife no longer living?"

            "Alas, no, poor Dorothy." Lady Howard sighed. "She died in childbed, and the baby with her. He was reported to be inconsolable."

            "Oh, dear, what a shame," Relena murmured, feeling a strange exultation that she dared not examine more closely. A second later she did examine it and told herself that she was a goose, a dunce, and mad, besides, to lay even the first brick of a dream castle. The handsome young Earl of Marne was not for the likes of an overweight damsel with her nose in a book while sitting in the chairs at Almack's. He was only being kind, and after tonight undoubtedly she would never see him again. Indeed, she could count herself fortunate if, after all, he came back to claim her for the dance – fan or no fan. Resolutely she opened her book at the place she had marked.

Notes: Yeah, there is a lot of OOC-ness going on but hopefully it's good OOC-ness. We all **know** Dorothy would never **ever** recite poetry…unless they were about war. -droplets- REVIEW! It keeps us authoresses going and helps inspiration strike more often.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own GW.

**The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 2)**

            "What is this I am told?" Lady Peacecraft said loudly as she pulled up the shades in Relena's bedchamber. Sunlight came blindingly through the windows, battening upon Relena's closed eyelids and reddening the darkness beneath them. Relena, opening her eyes, blinked against that brightness and would have rolled over to bury her face in the pillows had not her mother seized her arm. 

            "You danced a country dance with Lord Winner?" Lady Peacecraft questioned.

            "Yes…" Relena moaned, unhappily reminded of that dance. "I stepped on his foot. I wish he would not have asked me. I much preferred speaking to him. He did not wince, but I cannot think it was very comfortable. I expect that is why I did not see him anymore." She groaned and buried her face in the pillow.

            "Sybil tells me that you had quite a conversation with him," Lady Peacecraft said, appropriating the pillow. "Do wake up, Relena," she continued impatiently. "It is fifteen minutes past the hour of ten, and you have slept quite long enough."

            Relena regarded her mother blearily. Generally Lady Peacecraft did not care how long she slept. She read eagerness and hope in her mother's gaze and had no trouble tracing them to their source. "We conversed about Maria Edgeworth, Mama. I was reading one of her books, and he told me that his wife used to read them too."

            "His wife is dead," Lady Peacecraft said with satisfaction that Relena, now reluctantly awake, found most inappropriate."

            "She died two years ago. He has had time to recover from her passing. He is the last of his line, you know."

            "I do feel sorry for him," Relena said. "Poor man."

            "He is not poor, my dear. He is exceedingly rich and he belongs to a fine family. It is small wonder that his godmother, Lady Cavendish is anxious for him to marry – his sister Iria too."

            "They…they want him to marry his _sister_?" Relena sat up straight, staring at her mother incredulously.

            "May heaven preserve me!" Lady Peacecraft exclaimed. "You are not usually so dense, Relena. I said that his sister, Iria, Lady Belmore, wishes him to marry again. She has given birth to twin daughters and cannot have any more children. Consequently, if he does not marry, the line will end with him. He must have an heir!"

            "I do not believe that he should be pressed to marry again, at least not immediately," Relena said staunchly. "I have the feeling that he is very unhappy. His smile never reaches his eyes." She added, "I heard last night that his wife was very beautiful."

            "She was beautiful and, unfortunately, of a poetical bent, my friend Lady Latimer told me. She had a slight acquaintance with Dorothy and said that she reminded her of Lady Caroline Lamb, tiny, wispy, and frail. I understand she was much more beautiful than poor Caroline; but no matter, she loved roaming through the high grass when it was touched with morning dew or some such folderol, and did so even when she was with child with the result that she caught a fever and subsequently died in childbed, losing the child too. Not even Caro Lamb was that silly! But of course, Lady Latimer said, he – Lord Marne – was inconsolable. She had captured his imagination along with his heart. Oh, dear, I do not know why I am giving you all this nonsense. It is far more important that I tell you that you have received a large bouquet of roses from Lord Marne, and he has written that he hopes he may wait upon you this afternoon at three."

            "Surely you jest!" Relena cried.

            "Of course I do not jest," Lady Peacecraft responded irritably. "I do not blame you for being surprised. I, too, was surprised – and coming immediately after your second night at Almack's. I think you must wear your blue lutestring, my dear. It does bring out your eyes. Your eyes are, by far, your best feature, Relena, and I suspect they would be larger were you less plump, but they are a lovely color – cerulean blue. Your hair is pretty too."

            "I cannot imagine why he would want to see me again," Relena said wonderingly.

            Since Lady Peacecraft was caught between a hope she hardly dared express even to herself, and a normal confusion, she said vaguely, "I expect he enjoyed talking to you, my dear. You are intelligent and you are not flighty. Furthermore, you are an eligible young lady and -,"

            "You cannot imagine that he regards me in that light!" Relena exclaimed incredulously.

            "Well, no, I really do not imagine that he does," Lady Peacecraft allowed as she mentally and reluctantly summed up the unlikely aspects of her fugitive hope. "I understand that he is just beginning to go about society again…" She left that comment trail off, adding finally, "I will know better after I have seen him."

            Quatre Raberba Winner, Lord Marne, arriving at Lady Peacecraft's town house at the stated hour of three, approved its classic lines. It had belonged, he knew to the family for at least two generations and, in common with the daughter of the house, it suggested stability if not beauty. He reminded himself that stability was what he wanted. Relena, large, at least a head taller than dearest Dorothy (he winced as he considered the contrast), breathed stability. He doubted if there were a flutter in her whole makeup. A memory of Dorothy's breathless speech, her adorable little half sentences, leaving one to guess just what she might mean, arose in his mind and almost kept him from lifting the knocker. Yet lift it he did, feeling its metal chill against his palm. He was half inclined to put it gently, gently against its plate and leave, but he did not. He left it fall, and the resulting clang was, he though a signal.

            It was opened immediately by a footman in dark blue livery who gave him an interrogative glance. Once more he hesitated, thinking that he could say he had mistaken the house, but again he did not. He gave his name and was ceremoniously ushered into a well-furnished hall. As he waited for the butler to announce him, he looked about him approvingly. There would be no problem about the dowry, he was sure. He knew the Peacecraft family to be wealthy. One of the problems of his first marriage had been his Dorothy's meager portion, something that had mattered not at all to him – but his father, alive at the time, had not been at all pleased. Only Dorothy's heritage had served to soothe the elder Marne. She had been descended on one side from French aristocrats, who traced her lineage back tot ye Yves Saint-loud who had fought the infidel in Jerusalem, and on the other side to the Greys, that same family that counted among its members the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey.

            "If you lordship will come this way, her ladyship is awaiting you in the drawing room."

            Lord Marne banished Dorothy and her connections to the vast area of his mind that she still inhabited and from which she was incessantly summoned. He said, "I thank you," and stood a little taller as he prepared himself for what he decided must be the first step in an unhappily undertaken, but most necessary, courtship.

            On his way to the drawing room he had reason to approve a long hall, the walls of which were hung with some excellent paintings. Then they were at what he privately termed the "fatal threshold." His name was announced, and taking a deep breath, he expelled it as he stepped into a tastefully decorated apartment. A swift glance showed him Relena in some blue garment, and Lady Peacecraft, whom she did not resemble except in eyes and hair. Undoubtedly, she took after her father's side of the family. Her mother was small and fair. Laura was, as he had noted last night, darker. Her eyes were deep blue, and her hair was golden shot with reddish lights. She had a lovely complexion, but she was plump, which he decided was all to the good. Relena would never remind him of Dorothy. Indeed, she could have made two of his late wife!

            He returned Lady Peacecraft's warm greeting, bowed over her hand, and subsequently greeted and bowed over the trembling hand of her daughter. Relena, he noted, looked exceedingly ill-at-ease. He was sorry for that. He guessed that her mother's presence was intimidating. No doubt Lady Peacecraft was already building castles in the air – or perhaps churches. He had a mental sigh for the preliminaries of a courtship, based on necessity rather than passion. If he wished, he could turn this visit into a mere courtesy call and never appear again, or he could let it be the first of a series of visits – formal, interspersed with riding in the park and ultimately an unchaperoned drive in his curricle. He wished that poor Relena, so delightful when she was being herself, was not currently so constrained. Then he was reminded of the book he had brought with him. Breaking the silence that had fallen now that the preliminaries of the visit were at an end, he produced the book, bought that morning in Hatchard's. Holding it up, he said, "I do hope you have not read _Ennui_. It is another work of -,"

            "Maria Edgeworth!" Relena finished hastily, and then cowed by a look from her mother, she added awkwardly, "I mean…"

            "You are right," he said hastily. "It is the work of Maria Edgeworth. Have you read it?"

            "Oh, no, I have not," Relena said excitedly. "I do thank you."

            Quatre, seeing traces of the Relena he had encountered the previous night, smiled as he gave it to her. "You are quite welcome. I hope it does not live up to its title."

            "_Ennui_? Oh, I do not believe Miss Edgeworth could ever be boring." Seeing an interrogative look on her mother's face, Relena blushed. "I…was reading one of Miss Edgeworth's other books last night -,"

            "Last night at the ball?" Lady Peacecraft raised an eyebrow.

            "I did no expect that I would be asked to dance," Relena responded bluntly, and then blushed deeply. "I…I mean…"

            "I think," Quatre said gently, "That you have altogether too small an opinion of yourself, Lady Relena."

            "She is all unspoiled, my lord," Lady Peacecraft murmured, unconsciously echoing Lady Howard.

            "I can see she is," he replied. "I think it charming."

            "You do?" Relena blurted, and then blushed deeply again.

            "I do," he averred, feeling very sorry for her. Even without knowing Lady Peacecraft, he could envision the scene that must needs take place after his departure. He had best stay a little longer and talk of matters inconsequential, he decided, even though with every moment he remained in the Peacecraft house he would be more deeply committed to a plan which, at first, had been rather vague and amorphous. Yet, oddly enough, he felt strangely protective of Relena, almost as protective as he had been of his lovely sylph of a wife. Relena certainly was not lovely, but she was needful and embarrassed and, unless he were being too impossibly conceited, in the throes of her first love.

            He stayed and they talked; rather, he and Lady Peacecraft talked of people they knew. They discussed the Byron scandal which, though several months old, was still a topic to generate comment. Finally he took his leave, but not before he had asked if Relena would care to go riding with him in the park.

            "Oh, I most certainly would," Relena cried. "I should like it above all things."

            "My dear," Lady Peacecraft murmured, her manner suggesting that such a burst of enthusiasm ill became her daughter.

            Quatre, seeing the enthusiasm fade from Relena's face, said hastily, "I am pleased that you have agreed, Lady Relena. I will look forward to our ride."

            He took his leave shortly after having made arrangements where and when they would meet. Much to his surprise, he found himself annoyed by Lady Peacecraft's habit of constantly quelling what he guessed to be Relena's native exuberance. She had been a different person at the ball – different, he reminded himself, until Lady Howard woke. The girl gave promise of being quite delightful when she was not being badgered by her elders. If she were in his household, he would see to it that she would be allowed to be her own person. As the implications inherent in that thought suddenly hit him, he realized that he was very near a decision that he had originally believed must needs take months or even a year or even two.

            "Do not be too hasty," he murmured to himself, belatedly remembering the reasons for a marriage that was based on considerations other than love. He could almost hear his sister telling him he should wed someone older, someone who understood these arrangements.

            "Lady Relena Peacecraft…I know a Sylvia Peacecraft, or rather, Sylvia, Lady Ludlow, wife of Heero Yuy," Iria commented the day following her brother's visit to Lady Peacecraft's house. "She had a sizable dowry, I remember, but such a flighty girl. If her sister is anything like Sylvia…"

            "I have not had the pleasure of Lady Ludlow's acquaintance," Quatre said. "Lady Relena is not flighty. On the contrary, she is quite shy and self-effacing."

            "And she is Sylvia's sister?" Iria looked surprised. Then, before he could respond, she added, "But, wait, there is a third one, not long out of the schoolroom, I should imagine."

            "I would think that Lady Relena is no more than eighteen," Quatre replied a trace uncomfortably, the whole he waited for a burst of derision from Iria.

            "Eighteen to twenty-six," Iria murmured. "Well, you are certainly not old enough to be her father. I always believe it more pleasant when there are some years between a man and woman. Eight is adequate. It is close on the amount that stretched between you and poor Dorothy, is it not?"

            "She was four years my junior," he said.

            "Gracious, I should not have though so," Iria commented, and flushed. "I mean, she did look exceptionally young, not to say" – her flush deepened – "very young."

            Quatre, having a good idea of what his sister had meant to say, responded coolly. "I am quite aware of your opinion of Dorothy. You should have made an effort to know her better."

            It was an old bone, and one that ought to have been picked clean by now, Iria thought indignantly. However, since she was quite anxious to satisfy herself if her brother invited her to ride with them, she said merely, "You will remember that I was only just wed myself."

            Her brother gave her a long, measuring glance before saying obliquely, "Very well. And will you be joining us in the park, then?"

            "I will be delighted," his sister said enthusiastically.

            Relena, riding Charity, her spirited chestnut mare, and with Lady Howard close at her side mounted on Fraxinella, a dun mare called after a well-known racehorse but with a deliberate disposition that quite belied her name, listened impatiently to her chaperone's adjurations concerning the inadvisability of cantering along these paths.

            "You will not wish to be thought mannish," her ladyship concluded.

            "Might I not at least suit my past to his?" Relena demanded disappointedly.

            "I suggest that you attempt no more than a decorous trot." Lady Howard said after a moment given over to considering her charge's question.

            With considerably difficulty Relena refrained from asking Lady Howard how one might manage to be decorous on horseback. Besides, as she watched her chaperone guide her hose along the bridle path, she realized that she had before her a more than adequate example. It was truly amazing how her mentor managed to take the joy out of every occasion at which she was present. In fact, she seemed to carry her own rain cloud with her – for directly she had arrived at the stables, a gray-edged cloud had drifted over the sun. More clouds were presently appearing, she noted, and she hoped devoutly that it would not rain. Still, she thought bitterly, that might be well within Lady Howard's province too.

            Her unhappy thoughts were scattered as two riders suddenly appeared in the distance. As they drew nearer, Relena saw Quatre Winner, Lord Marne in the lead and mounted on a magnificent black stallion. Behind him was a very lovely young woman riding a chestnut gelding. She was wearing a brown habit that was almost the same color as her eyes. As she and his lordship came closer, an agonizing Relena was relieved to find a strong family resemblance between the pair. Before she could come to any more conclusions, they had ridden up and she must control a suddenly fractious Charity, while being introduced to Lady Belmore, his lordships sister. 

            Having finally subdued Charity, Relena looked up to find Lord Marne beside her. "G-good afternoon, my l-lord," she stuttered, and agonizing again over having stuttered, and agonized yet again as she realized she had already exchanged that greeting with him.

            "Good afternoon, Lady Relena," he said cordially. "May I congratulate you on your admirable control of your mount?"

            "I thank you. Poor Charity gets rattled ever so often," Relena explained, feeling rattled herself as she found it necessary to rein Charity in again, thus needing to reluctantly divide her attention between his lordship and her steed. 

            "I find that the weather often has a less and salubrious effect on these spirited horses." He glanced upward at a sky that was becoming more overcast by the minute. "I awoke to sunshine," he continued, "but it seems as if Apollo's chariot is being overtaken by Jove."

            "Oh, dear, I hope not. I have been so looking forward to…" Relena reddened. "I mean…"

            "I hope that you meant you had been looking forward to our ride," Quatre said. "I know I have." He added, "Shall we go on ahead and hope that we are not driven back by the elements? Perhaps we might even race?"

            "Oh, I should like that!" Relena exclaimed enthusiastically. Then, mindful of Lady Howard, she added, "Only…"

            "Only what?" he demanded. "This path will lead us to within a sight of the Serpentine. The first one who sees it will win the race. Come…" he urged his horse forward.

            He was not even going to give her a handicap, Relena realized joyfully as she, in turn, urged Charity onward. Lord Marne was a few paces ahead and unmindful of a warning cry from Lady Howard. Relena clicked her tongue at Charity and in another few minutes had outdistanced his lordship. He, of course, did not remain passively behind. He was ahead of her in another few moments, his triumphant laughter inciting her to further burst of speed.

            Relena was in sight of a shimmering length of blue behind the sheltering trees, and the word _Serpentine_ was gleefully forming on her lips when, with a searing flash of lightning and an ominous roll of thunder, the skies opened to allow the descent of a veritable deluge. With an actual scream of fright, Charity tossed her rider into a thicket and, turning tail, fled back in the direction of the stables.

            "You will get no sympathy from _me_," Lady Peacecraft said icily as she stood just inside the door of Relena's chamber, where the latter lay on a pile of pillows. "You promised Lady Howard that you would not race."

            "I…I did not intend to race," Relena moaned. "He suggested it."

            "I cannot believe that," Lady Peacecraft responded sharply.

            "Well, he did, Mama." Relena wished strongly that her mother would leave and allow her to suffer in peace. She had fallen amid thorns and these had not only penetrated into her riding habit, they also had pierced portions of her nether parts. That was what was hurting her the most – the fact that Lord Marne, while extracting her from the thicket, had necessarily viewed those same parts. Her only hope was that they had no really registered on him as, looking extreme concerned and unmindful of the pelting rain, he had carefully pulled the thorny branches away and then, placing her on his saddlebow, had ridden back to the stables.

            She had read a great deal about gallant knights placing distressed damsels before them on their saddle bows – but those damsels had invariably been slim, fairylike maidens with glowing golden locks, and they had generally assumed that particular perch in clement weather. They had certainly not been held against a gallant quite as soggy as the maiden he had rescued and with hands, scratched and bleeding from dealing with the thicket. Furthermore his light, wavy hair, probably concealed by a helmet in those days, was not lying wetly across his forehead, and above all, such a gallant would not have been shaking with laughter for which he apologized over and over again, only to continue laughing.

            "You," her mother said coldly, "were determined to show him your prowess in the saddle. Well, my dear Relena, you have shown him. Pride goeth before a fall and never was a saying more true…" She paused at a tap on the door. "Yes?" she asked loudly and crossly as she opened the portal.

            Thomas, one of the footmen, said, "There's a letter come for you, Lady Peacecraft. It was just brought 'ere." He held out a silver tray on which reposed an envelope.

            Lady Peacecraft took the envelope. "Thank you, Thomas," she said in less pejorative accents. "You may go." As the door closed behind the footman, Lady Peacecraft, glancing at the envelope, said, "It is from Lord Marne. Very possibly he wishes to clear you of blame for your folly this afternoon, and take it upon himself. He is the very soul of courtesy. What a pity that we will probably see him no more."

            A sob escaped Relena. "He did not seem angry…he was only s-sorry that my horse threw me."

            Lady Peacecraft, her lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval, opened the envelope, Taking out a folded sheet of paper, she opened it so impatiently that she tore off a corner. Then, as she perused it, she let it drop to the floor as she exclaimed, "Good God!"

            "What is it, Mama?" Relena said up and then sank back with a groan as she was assailed by aches and pains in all portions of her anatomy.

            Lady Peacecraft had retrieved the letter, and she read it yet again. "The man is mad!" she cried.

            "I…I do not understand you, Mama! What does he say?" Relena demanded.

            "He says that…that…" Lady Peacecraft gasped, and then suddenly sat down on a nearby chair as if her legs had just collapsed beneath her.

            "Mama!" Relena exclaimed. "You...you have turned white. Do you need the hartshorn? What is it? Please t-tell me!"

            "Lord Marne wishes…he…he wishes to…to marry you, Relena," Lady Peacecraft said in faint, unbelieving tones. "As…as soon as you have r-recovered." She held the letter up. "It…it is a formal offer. I never…I never thought such a thing would ever happen."

            Relena paid no attention to her mother's unflattering reception of news that was filling her with a most unfamiliar emotion. It was only after it had persisted for some little time that she was able to define it as ecstasy.

AN: By the way, since Quatre is the Earl of Marne, he usually has to be referred to "Lord Marne". It's confusing but hopefully it'll be easier to catch on as the story goes along…Anyways, I thought it might help if I offered some facts about the figures mentioned in this story.

**Caroline Lamb** – Lady Caroline Lamb is an actual historical figure that had lived during the Regency Era. She is, perhaps, most famous for her scandalous (but tolerated) affair with Lord Byron (a famous poet of that time). She was so infatuated with him, that after he tired of her and broke up their affair, she obsessed over him. When he married her cousin, Annabelle Milbanke, she accepted it but still obsessed over him. She followed him several times and threatened to stab her own self, if he didn't come back however, he always refuted. It's rumored he still cared enough for her but was turned off by her fascination with him. After he scolded her at a masquerade ball (where everyone talked about it for days), she started slanderous rumors of him confessing to incestuous affairs with his half-sister, Augusta Leigh. It broke up his marriage with Annabelle Milbanke and he left England because of it. Ah yes, did I mention that during the time of their affair, Caroline was already married? It was a very passionate marriage at the start but when he became more interested in his political affairs Caroline decided to break away. She is also famous for dressing as a page.

**Lady Jane Grey** – When King Henry VIII died, Edward, his nephew, came to the throne. Jane, as the oldest of his cousins was expected to marry him so from when she was 3, she began her education. Both her and Edward seemed like a great match for they were both the same age, very precocious, and fervently Protestant. However, Jane never married Edward for he died. The Duke of Northumberland who had received care of her when she was in her teens, devised a plan to keep himself and the monarchy in Protestant hands (and namely, his hands). Though the title of Queen should've gone to Mary, Edward's sister, the Duke of Northumberland spread lies claiming her unfit because she was a Catholic. Tricked into marrying the younger son of the Duke, Jane and her husband, Guildford, didn't care at all for each other. In fact, when she refused to claim him as her King, he broke down into tears and ran to his mother. The Duchess ranted at Jane for an hour but that didn't change Jane's mind. In fact, right after Edward died (even though it was kept a secret from Jane), suspicions started rising in Jane's mind (which is probably why she refused to name Guildford as the King). Jane ruled for nine-days (she's called the Nine-Day Queen) before Mary's supporters over threw her and demanded she renounce her title. Jane did so gladly (she never even wanted it in the first place!). Mary promised Jane that she would be safe from becoming beheaded but because Jane was a Protestant and the focal point for Protestant rebels, Mary removed her clemency and Jane was beheaded (Jane did have a chance to live though if she renounced her faith – as you can guess, she refused). Mary ruled for five unhappy years before her half-sister, Elizabeth, took over the throne as one of the greatest monarchs in time. 

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	3. Chapter 3

Note: I don't own the GW or any of their characters. I just borrow them now and then to satisfy my sexual fantasies – I can't get NO satisfaction! –singing- (I'm just kidding!)

**The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 3)**

            Lady Belmore paced up and down the well-furnished library that lay on the second floor of her brother's London house. Her blue eyes were twin mirrors of disapproval. "But you cannot marry a young woman merely because she amuses you, Quatre. You do not love her!"

            Quatre said, "She is intelligent and she needs rescuing."

            "Rescuing?" she echoed. "From whom or what?"

            "From her chaperone," he replied, becoming more obscure by the moment, his exasperated sister thought.

            "Do you know what the word _rescue_ means to me?" she demanded.

            "No, you will have to explain your meaning." He smiled.

            "I see Andromeda chained to a rock…I see dragons and knights at arms and beautiful maidens. Lady Relena is neither a beautiful maiden, nor is she surrounded by dragons – so why are you donning knight-errant armor?"

            "Dragons may come in many shapes, Iria," he said gravely. "Unless I am deeply mistaken, Relena's dragons are named Lady Howard and Lady Peacecraft…both of them keep her from being herself. I am becoming rather fond of her."

            "But she is so…so…"

            As she paused, searching for a proper adjective, he said quickly, "So…what? You cannot tell me that she is not well born. Her family tree stretches back just as far as our own. She has a large dowry. She might not be beautiful, she is far too heavy, but is pleasant company and she is certainly undemanding."

            "You are not in love with her, not in the least," she accused.

            His smile vanished. "Am I supposed to be in love with her? How many marriages among us are based on love?"

            "Mine," his sister responded promptly. "And you once said that nothing would ever make you…" She paused as he held up a hand.

            "Anything I once said is to be ignored and forgotten. I married for love _once_. Such a feeling will not come to me again. Lady Relena is well connected, very well. She is rich. I cannot understand why we are having this discussion. I thought you would be delighted by my decision."

            She was silent, gazing at him rather sadly. Then she said slowly, "I am not delighted by it, Quatre, dearest. We are having this discussion because I happen to believe that a man of your temperament – _you_, Quatre, - needs to be in love." Iria's eyes filled with tears. "Supposing after you are wed you should meet someone you do love?"

            He said stubbornly, "Lighting never strikes twice in the same place. Would you have me withdraw my offer because for once in my life I am being extremely practical? I could not withdraw it, Iria, my dear, even were I to be assailed by second thoughts. I would hurt the poor child. She has already been hurt too much by well-intentioned persons who, as far as I can see, do not take her feelings into account. She is not without feelings, Iria."

            "He is marrying that girl out of _kindness_," Iria told her husband that night. "Poor Quatre, oh, I do so loathe that creature!"

            Her husband regarded her with mild surprise. "I thought you rather like her."

            "Whatever gave you that impression?" Iria demanded hotly. "In spite of the poor baby, I was not at all sorry when she died, that is the truth of it."

            "Oh, you were speaking about his wife," Lord Belmore said.

            "Whom did you think I meant?" she demanded edgily. 

            "I beg your pardon, my love. I had the impression you were speaking about Lady Relena."

            "Oh, no, I am only sorry for her, poor thing. I think she is quite madly in love with Quatre, and he has done nothing to discourage her, more's the pity."

            "Why should he, since he is planning to marry her?" Lord Belmore stared at her confusedly.

            "Can you not guess?" she asked challengingly.

            "No, I must admit that is a conundrum that escapes me. You are not making very much sense, my dear."

            "I am making perfect sense," she said stubbornly.

            Unknowingly Lady Peacecraft shared some of Iria's opinions, and these she felt incumbent upon herself to pass on to Relena even though the plans for the wedding due to take place at St. James's Church in mid-June, were proceeding at a most satisfactory pace. She chose a time when Relena, flushed and happy from her first visit to St. Bartholomew's Fair in company with her fiancé, was describing its wonders.

            "He is kind," Lady Peacecraft commented. "I think you will deal together very well. It is really the very best sort of a marriage. I think it much more important to be friends with the man you marry. I am pleased that you appear to be acquainted with the fact that he is not madly in love with you."

            The pleasure of the afternoon was suddenly abated. Relena was aware that Lord Marne was not madly in love with her. She knew that he was more friendly than loverlike. She had plenty of opportunity to witness husbands who were loverlike. Sylvia's lord treated her as if she were a piece of rare porcelain. His eyes glowed when she came into a room. He seemed to be speaking with the rest of the family, but actually he hardly ever heard what was being said to him. His eyes were on Sylvia, his thoughts were fixed on her – she was his life! Sally's husband was less overt, but that he adored her was unmistakable. As for herself, she wished strongly that she might refute what her mother believed to be "well-meant" advice, which, in this case, was merely stating the obvious.

            Unfortunately one did have to be realistic, and her grandmother had felt it incumbent upon herself to tell Relena about the late Lady Marne and her tragic death – an account that differed very little from those she had already heard on that never to be forgotten second visit to Almack's, when _he_ had unaccountably asked her to dance. The countess had concluded a considerably more detailed version of the tale with words, "He must have an heir."

            "He must have an heir," Lady Peacecraft said.

            Relena, startled, looked at her mother, realizing that she had not heard much of what she had been saying. Obviously it must not have differed in content from her grandmother's comments. She said, "Yes, I know. I will try to be a good wife to him, Mama – and now, if you will excuse me?"

            "Of course, my dear," Lady Peacecraft said. Then, obviously feeling that something more should be added, she continued, "I am sure he is becoming fond of you."

            "He is very pleasant, Mama," Relena said. "Will you excuse me? I must change my clothes."

            "Yes, dear, of course. And do not forget that you are due at the theater tonight – Sir John and Lady Caldwell. Old friends."

            "From Norwich. Yes, I remember, Mama." Relena hurried out of the room and, arriving in her own chamber, told herself strongly that she must not weep. She must needs be realistic and not long for what he could not give her. She did enjoy his company. She had enjoyed it greatly that afternoon. They had watched a balloon ascension. They had laughed at the antics of a trained pig, and they had been similarly disgusted at a sideshow exhibit, the pig-faced woman. They had agreed that she ought not to be put on display for crowds to gawk at and discuss with horror or amusement as If she were bereft of feelings. Expressing a mutual distaste, they had hurried out, and then he had waltzed with her on a little platform with other couples and afterward treated her to a lemon ice.

            Obviously he enjoyed being with her, but he seemed more like an older brother than a lover, and Relena was quite aware that there were portions of his mind that would unlock to no verbal key. That was only too apparent in the occasional brooding sadness that appeared in his eyes when she guessed something reminded him of his late wife and lost love.

            She could not be jealous of her and should not be. Poor Dorothy had died so young, and oddly enough, despite her own burgeoning happiness, she wished that the lady had not died. She was generous enough to resent it when Lady Iria spoke about her in the most disparaging terms. The countess, too, had aroused her ire when she said sharply, "The late Lady Marne was a featherbrain, and selfish to the bone. Had she lived a little longer, her husband would have found it out, I can assure you, my dear Relena. It is extremely unfortunate that he did not. She was not born to be idolized, much less canonized.

            Despite her pity for the late Dorothy, Relena did think about her conversation with her mother off and on during the play that night, and once she was home again, she had needed to make a strong effort to keep from crying herself to sleep. However, the next morning, she was more philosophical, and fortunately, in the days that followed, she had little time to dwell on her bridegroom's late wife. Her days were spent in visits to the mantua maker's where, in addition to the fittings for her wedding gown, she was having a whole new wardrobe made. It would consist of stylish ensembles that a maid-into-matron might wear, and which, her mother said, suited her better than her demure muslins. While this was not precisely a compliment, it did raise spirits that occasionally flagged when she thought of the willowy figure of the late Lady Marne. Then there was the need to meet the relatives that she had not seen in years but who came into London from such distant places as Edinburgh, Yorkshire, and the Isle of Man. They came bearing gifts she must needs acknowledge. Other relations wrote sending gifts which again required notes. These her mother composed for Relena to copy.

            Most important was, of course, her wedding gown, which, unfortunately, must needs be white rather than the blue or violet that would have lent its hue to her eyes. However, for the last three years, white and only white was de rigueur for wedding gowns, and as Relena was only too aware, she would look twice her size in white. She was to wear the veil, lacy and long, which had been passed down by her grandmother. It would, unfortunately, conceal her hair – the color of which pleased her bridegroom, as he had told her more than once. He would not be seeing  her hair. He would only be seeing her full face, flushed pink, she feared, by excitement.

            She had begged Mrs. Bell to find a way to make her appear less gigantic in white, and the lady had obliged with a panel of cream-colored lace down the front, which, she insisted, would create the illusion of slimness. Relena was doubtful about that, but since she dared not challenge the mantua maker's decisions, she could only hope for the best and, while she was hoping, pray that Sylvia would remain in Land's End, which lay some two hundred and ninety miles from London and where her husband had an estate to which he had insisted they go after one of their many quarrels. As usual, it had revolved around the attentions of one Lord Carleton, whom Lord Ludlow had accused his wife of encouraging. Were Sylvia to insist on taking the long journey to London, she must easily outshine everyone present – including the bride or, rather, especially the bride. For perhaps the millionth time Relena wished that she had more in common with her sister than the timber of her voice, which, everyone said, was amazingly similar.

            As the day drew nearer, Relena was comforted by the fact that Sylvia had not arrived. It was wrong to feel as she did about her sister, but all too often she had been the brunt of Sylvia's pointed remarks concerning her size. Her sister had also lectured her on the dangers of becoming a bluestocking because of her copious reading. In vain, Relena had protested that she did not write.

            "Writing, my dear Relena, will be the next step. I can see you sitting at a desk, her fingers ink-stained and spectacles on the end of your nose – and I can see myself sending you a pair of blue stockings."

            That Sylvia had not forgotten that threat was apparent when, in the note accompanying the handsome silver candelabra she had sent as a wedding gift, there was a note wishing her well and, in the postcript, a line stating, "I could not find any blue stockings in all of Land's End."

            Lord Marne had wanted to know the meaning of that note and had laughed when she explained saying lightly that he was looking forward to meeting Sylvia. It had been wrong to feel so strong a stab of jealousy, and she was extremely glad that he could not read her mind. Yet it was on Sylvia that Relena was dwelling when she opened her eyes very early on the morning of June 9, 1816, her wedding day.

            A note sent by messenger had arrived the previous evening. The envelope had borne Sylvia's careless black scrawl. After all, by dint of traveling night and day, she would be present at her sister's wedding even if in an unofficial capacity, by which she meant, not as a bridesmaid. Lady Peacecraft had been delighted, speaking with uncharacteristic sentimentality about all her "chicks" being under one roof – save for her son, at present in India.

            "Oh, dear," Relena murmured unhappily. "Let her coach break down on the road…let a sudden storm rise, unlikely in June, but possible." Then common sense took over. It was foolish to worry about Sylvia – it was her wedding day.

            It was also a day that passed like a dream. It seemed to Relena that scarcely had she opened her eyes than she was garbed in her white gown, which, in her mirror, made her look as she had feared – twice her size. Then she was in the coach, her tearful mother murmuring that she was losing the last of her babies, quite as if she were not absolutely ecstatic over having married her youngest and least prepossessing daughter to a rich, handsome bridegroom of impeccable lineage, a triumph neither Sally nor Sylvia had achieved.

            Relena was never quite sure how she came to be standing at the back of the church with her bridesmaids, nor how she was suddenly proceeding slowly up the aisle to the altar, where the minister stood ready to united her with the tall, handsome stranger waiting for her, the unsmiling stranger who had stared at her as if she were equally strange to him. Indeed, it had seemed to Relena that rather than looking at her, Lord Marne's gaze was turned inward. However, when it came to the responses, which she spoke hesitantly, his had been firm, even if voiced in a lower tone that was generally his wont.

            Then the minister was blessing them and they were hurrying up the aisle to the open doors. They came out of the church to crowds of interested spectators. Subsequently they were helped into a coach and driven to the reception given by Lady Peacecraft, this after a three-day argument with the countess, who had wanted it to take place at her mansion. However, a mother who has so creditably disposed of three daughters, and with the last and least of them making by far the most influential marriage, was not to be stared down and out-argued by her mother-in-law!

            Stepping over the threshold of her mother's house symbolically for the last time, Relena still felt as if she were dreaming. Oddly enough, uppermost in her mind was the fact that despite her ominous letter, Sylvia had not been present in the church. Evidently her prayers had been answered. Her sister must have been delayed on the road! That was really all she needed to complete her happiness, she realized, and immediately castigated herself for most unsisterly thoughts.

            Meanwhile she was automatically nodding and smiling and thanking her bridesmaids and others for their good wishes, and at the same time longing to find a nook where she could sit and watch the handsome people at the reception, as she usually did, without participating, which was much more comfortable, really. Now, however, she was surrounded by her bridesmaids, none of whom she knew very well. They were daughters of family friends for the most part, and from their expressions some of them were more surprised than elated at her good fortune. However, they were all wishing her happy an, of course, she could not slip away. She looked for her bridegroom and was amazed to find him at her side. A glance at his face showed her that he was smiling as congratulations were spoken. Then, suddenly, his gaze grew fixed and he stiffened.

            "Relena, Relena, my dearest, oh, I was so dreadfully afraid that we would miss the reception!" Sylvia caroled. She threw her arms around her sister and kissed her on the cheek. "Congratulations, my dearest."

            Relena fastened dazed eyes on Sylvia, who, on drawing back, was found to be wearing a blue gown that matched her great eyes. Her golden hair clustered about her lovely face, and as usual, she was as slim as a fairy. Then, on turning to the bridegroom, she stared up at him in an amazement that widened her eyes and, for a split second, her mouth as well.

            Relena said, "Q-Quatre," his name unfamiliar to her tongue. "My sister Sylvia."

            He bowed over Sylvia's hand. "Your servant, ma'am," he murmured.

            "But I am delighted." Sylvia seemed to be having difficulty in speaking, for she did not offer any further congratulations.

            Then others closed in on the newly wedded pair, and Sylvia vaguely acknowledged the greetings she was receiving from friends she had not seen in months – not since being, in effect, exiled to the far end of Cornwall. She wished she might speak to her mother, but a glance around the room showed her Lady Peacecraft surrounded by other well-wishers. Consequently she could not ask her how it happened that Relena, large and clumsy, looking twice her size in white, could have married so well – an earl, a dashing young earl and so handsome that he might almost be called beautiful and, judging from his interested reaction on meeting herself, not in love with the chit, either. Indeed, how could he be? Heero had told her that he knew the bridegroom at Cambridge, she suddenly remembered.

            She tried to remember what else he had said and looked around for her husband. She found him speaking to the groom and smiling at Relena, whom he had always liked for reasons she never had been able to understand. Though one was supposed to love a sister, Sylvia had always found Rleena singularly difficult to love or, for that matter, even to like! She was such a lump! And not this lump, this fat, clumsy creature who was practically bursting out of her gown, had made the match of the season, and in her first season, too – which was a miracle, indeed. Reasons flew into her head and were summarily dismissed. Though Relena did appear very large in that unbecoming gown with the lace panel down the front that made her look even wider in the hips, she was positive that Lord Marne never would have gotten her sister with child!

            "It is amazing, is it not?" someone commented.

            Sylvia turnedto find Lady Une, an old friend whom she had known in school. She was recently wed to Sir Treize Kusherenada, not a brilliant match to be sure but one based on love, as hers had been, she had believed – for who would have expected Heero to be such a bear! She said, "Une, my dear, yes, I do find it amazing, Relena of all people."

            "It has been the talk of the town," Une murmured. "She is certainly nothing like his first wife."

            "Oh, has he been married before?" Sylvia asked interestedly. "Mama failed to tell me that. And what was _she_ like, his first wife?"

            "The most utterly beautiful creature, my dear. They married at the beginning of her first season…it seems to be a habit with him. This is Relena's first season, is it not?"

            "Yes," Sylvia nodded, adding impatiently, "Tell me more about him. I have heard nothing."

            "How might you in Cornwall? How do you bear it, my dear? It is the very end of the earth!"

            "Oh, it has its beauties," Sylvia assured her, thoroughly disliking her erstwhile friend for implications she could not refute. "You were telling me about Lord Marne's first wife. He must have been very young when he married."

            "He was twenty-one and she was seventeen. They were divinely happy, entirely wrapped up in each other, and living in the country."

            "They lived entirely in the country?" Sylvia regarded her wide-eyed.

            "Entirely. The town knew them no more for three or four years, I am not quite sure the length of time. Then she died in childbed two years ago."

            "Oh, dear, how tragic." Sylvia murmured.

            "Yes, it was tragic. He fell into the deepest melancholy. His sister Iria, a friend of mine, told me that they feared he might take his own life…and I believe he is still affected, but family pressures, you understand. He is the last of his line and there must be an heir."

            "Oh, of course." Sylvia nodded. 

            Une regarded her thoughtfully. "Did you know, Sylvia, my dear, poor Dorothy looked a great deal like you? Despite the hair, you have very similar features,"

            "Dorothy being, of course, his late wife?" Sylvia questioned. As her friend nodded, she felt singularly cheered by news that could not be discounted as mere gossip. Certainly it explained Relena's remarkable marriage, and it also explained the bridegroom's fixed stare at her.

            Not for the first time Sylvia wished that she had not rushed so gladly into marriage with Heero, a mere viscount. She had loved him, or rather she had thought she loved him. Still, who could have known that he would prove so very jealous over the most trifling matters? She looked at Relena, red-faced and beaming, as she stood next to that singularly handsome young man. He was not beaming. Indeed, he was looking sober and meeting his eye; she smiled warmly at him, mentally pleased to receive an answering smile, and even more pleased when that smile faded as Relena looked up to say something to him. Though Sylvia was not very familiar with the Bible, it seemed to her that some king had been strongly impressed and at the same time depressed when he had seen some handwriting on the wall of his palace. She, herself, seemed to see much the same thing magically appearing on her mother's stripped wallpaper, but it did not depress her in the least!

            The wedding feast took place at three in the afternoon, so that the newly wedded couple could begin the first leg of their journey to Somerset before sundown. The bridegroom's castle was located near the historic town of Chard, though according to Lord Marne, his home was less a castle than a manor house, the latter rising as had many other houses after the depredations of the Civil War.

            "That it is still called Marne Castle is out of respect to its historic past rather than to its more mundane present," Relena remembered him telling her.

            "Knights and cavaliers rode out of its storied gates, and country gentlemen rode back in later years." He had spoken rather wryly, as if, indeed, he regretted the armor and the banners, the spears and the war machines, though why that occurred to her, she did not know. She was thinking about that new conversation as her excited new abigail, Catherine Bloom, arrayed her in her going-away gown, which, thanks be to heaven, was not white but a muted blue silk that complimented her eyes and her coloring.

            Elaine Walwyn, one of the girls she had known from her brief year at a private school in Bath, was helping Relena dress, and so was Marina Fitzwilliam, a friend from home. They were both excited and at the same time surprised that she was marrying so handsome and well connected a young man, Relena knew. She could not blame them for that. She had read varying degrees of that same surprise on the faces of many wedding guests. However, it had been most obvious when Sylvia, who had just now entered her chamber, had come to speak to herself and Lord Marne, whom she must remember to think about as Quatre, her husband! It was early to adjust her thinking, and she could not help believing that she was in a dream from which she must soon awaken.

            Why was Sylvia here at this moment? She wondered. Sally was directing Catherine as to what she must take on the journey. Sylvia, however, had not come to help her. That was not her way. Furthermore, the smile with which she had greeted her below was missing. For reasons she could not quite explain, Relena braced herself as Sylvia reached her side. Still, she managed to say politely, if not truthfully, "I am pleased that you were able to come to my reception, Sylvia."

            "I am pleased that we were able to reach London in time," Sylvia responded. "You are fortunate, indeed, Relena."

            "I know I am," Relena said simply, thinking that her sister's eyes were as cold as twin pieces of ice. In fact, she had an almost overwhelming urge to hold up two fingers as she had seen old Janet do when she was warding off what she termed "the evil eye." Sylvia was staring at her as if she actually hated her.

            She said, however, "I do wish you well, and one day I hope you will invite me to your home in Somerset – such a lovely part of the country."

            "We will certainly do so," Relena said warmly now, her happiness returning with the delightfully allowable substitution of _we_ for _I_. And then she wished that she wished that she had not expressed it in quite that way, for she received another narrowed glance as Sylvia responded, "I will remember that, my dear." Then she leaned forward and kissed Relena on both cheeks before hurrying out of the room.

            Almost unthinkingly Relena put both hands to her cheeks, feeling, indeed, as If rather than receiving kisses they had been stung buy a pair of furious bees.

            "How very beautiful your sister is," Elaine murmured.

            Sally, who was close at hand, murmured, "Beauty is as beauty does." She bent a compassionate look on Relena, and moving nearer, she said, "Sylvia is Sylvia, but Heero has told me that they are returning to Cornwall within the week."

            Relena looked at her older sister in surprise. "You noticed?" She would have gone on, but Sally interrupted her quickly. "You must not let her spoil your day, my dear. And…" But whatever else she might have said fell into silence as the countess, with Jane behind her, entered the room.

            "Ah, my dear Relena." Her grandmother looked up at her. "You must always wear blue, must she not, Jane?"

            "Aye, your ladyship," Jane said. Her eyes, gray and deep-set, lingered on Relena's face.

            "Jane counts herself the harbinger of your happiness, my dear." The countess stood on tiptoe to kiss Relena's cheek. "You are such a giantess – but your husband is taller yet. My felicitations, my dearest. Jane, you must admit, has outdone herself."

            "She has." Relena, looking into the ancient abigail's hooded gray eyes, was, as usual, unnerved by their intensity. "I do thank you, Jane."

            "I am not to be thanked," the old woman said in a low voice. "I tell what I see, and I see you happy…in time."

            It was an odd thing for her to say. Implicit in her comment – or was it a prediction? – was delay, Relena thought, and hoped devoutly that she was wrong.

            "Of course she will be happy, you silly old woman," the countess said briskly. "How could she not be happy, Jane? Lord Marne is a handsome, charming young man and he is also intelligent. You are very fortunate, my dear."

            "And so is he…" Jane murmured.

            "What?" The countess frowned. "But of course they are both fortunate."

            'Yes…both." Jane nodded.

            Having had her say, or rather, having down her duty by her granddaughter, the countess whirled out of the chamber, followed by Jane, moving slowly, as usual. As she reached the door she glanced back over her shoulder and nodded at Relena, her expression enigmatic and, to Relena's mind, rather grim. Furthermore, those of her words that remained longest in her thoughts were only two. "In time."

            As Relena came down the stairs there was a group pf people waiting for her on the first floor and looking up expectantly. However, Quatre was not among them. He was near the door and he was not looking in his bride's direction. He could not, for Sylvia was speaking to him, smiling provocatively up at him and receiving a warm smile in return from one who had eyes for non other. It seemed to Relena as if everyone were suddenly looking at the pair by the door and, in consequence, were she to throw her bouquet, there would be no one to catch it, and it must needs remain unclaimed on the stairs. Yet it was the custom, and certainly she must throw it.

            "Does no one…" she began, but her voice faded into silence as Sylvia stood on tiptoe to kiss the bridegroom's cheek and to cry warmly, "For luck, my dear brother-in-law."

            The bouquet dropped from Relena's suddenly nerveless fingers and fell on the stairs where Lady Iria hastily retrieved it as Relena reached the bottom of the stairs and Lord Marne, hurriedly parting from Sylvia, came to put an arm around his wife's waist and to say in surprise, "But you are shivering, my dear. Surely you are not cold."

            She looked upward and, meeting his eyes, read concern in them. "I…I dropped my bouquet. I hope it is not an ill omen," she said, and then tried to laugh. "But that is a foolish thing to say, is it not?"

            "It is, my dear, and certainly it is not an ill omen," Lady Iria said behind them. She returned the flowers to Relena. "Here," she added, "you must throw it, and we will see whom the next bride will be!"

            "Yes," the bridesmaids chorused. "Come, Relena!"

            Feeling oddly confused, Relena obeyed, flinging the bouquet high, higher, than she had intended so that it sailed over the extended hands of her bridesmaids and the wedding guests to fall toward Sylvia, who made no effort to retrieve it. Instead, she merely scooped it up from the floor once it had fallen at her feet.

            "You should have caught it, Sylvia." Her mother frowned at her.

            "But" – Sylvia laughed lightly – "I am married already, am I not?"

            "I think we must go." Lord Marne smiled at Relena and slipped his arm around her waist. "We have a ways to go before sunset." He escorted her quickly through the assembled wedding guests. Their good wishes rang in her ears, and at the door, her mother kissed her farewell. Then they were on their way to the waiting coach, and Sylvia must needs remain behind. Relena, glancing back over her shoulder, failed to glimpse her sister and was glad of that.

**Author's Notes:** Hope you liked this chapter! Please review! It gives me the motivation I need to finish this story. :) Now for the questions…

Dragonrose – Would you believe that back then, you didn't even have to meet to marry? People rarely married for love so it really didn't matter whether or not you saw each other. As long as you came from a good family, had a large dowry, and your families agreed to the marriage, you were set. Afterwards, if you did not like your husband/wife (which was the case most of the time), you could go out and find yourself a lover (which most did) as long as it was under wraps. Marriages were the best way to gain a higher position in society. Everything was based on how it would make **the parents** look. It didn't matter if their offspring didn't love who they married – in fact, it was actually strange for a wife and husband to be affectionate towards each other, much less show affection in public or anywhere else. If you had married someone your family didn't approve of, you would've caused a huge scandal – the family taking the easy way out by disowning you. Everything was very strict back then. If you weren't happy, it didn't matter. For them, as soon as you got married and produced an heir, you were free to accept lovers. It was easier for the men than it was for the women, though (Surprise, surprise. -_-). 

Mae – Does Quatre like Sylvia? Well, I certainly hope you received your answer after reading this chapter… -grins-

Dreamweaver – Actually, I hadn't planned on most of the guys showing up. I was planning on Hilde showing up along with Duo, but he doesn't play a big role. Other than Quatre, the Gundam guys won't be playing too big of a role in this story. –droplets- However, I am planning another story in which they **might** show up. ;) 

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! It means a lot to me that you guys took the time to type down some words of encouragement. I don't care if you criticize my story for making it too OOC, or for being too dull, and so forth, it's always refreshing to know people read the story and liked it well enough to take a few moments to write down their feelings. Thanks again! 


	4. Chapter 4a

Disclaimer: None. :) I OWN YOU BOYS! (Not really.)

**The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 4a)**

            A shower of rice followed Relena and her bridegroom into the well-sprung traveling coach with Quatre's family crest of a lion rampant in gold on a dark green door. Her Abigail and his valet rode in another large coach on which was strapped Relena's trunk and his lordship's portmanteau. There were four outriders, and there was also a fine saddle horse, which, Quatre had told Relena, he intended to ride for part of the way. Since it would take something under three days to reach their destination, they were booked into two inns.

            As they rolled down the street, Relena, sitting with one hand clutching the strap by the window, found herself suddenly tongue-tied, while Quatre, sitting near the other window, was similarly silent. He was not usually so constrained, Relena thought. And of course, she hastily reminded herself, neither was she. In the days before this one, he had always had plenty to say about where they would be going, whether it was to look at the jewels in the Tower of London or to visit the exhibits at the British Museum. She wondered what he was thinking – she also wondered what might lie ahead. They would reach the first inn by seven or eight that evening, she had been told. Then, as the silence grew oppressive, she said shyly, "I expect…" and paused, for he had cleared his throat as if he were about to speak.

            They looked at each other and laughed nervously. "You were about to say, my dear?" he inquired.

            Relena noted that he was not looking directly at her. Indeed, it seemed as if his gaze were fixed upon a spot over her head. "I…do not remember. What were you about to say, Q-Quatre?"

            "I thought I would tell you a little about the road over which we will be traveling. I do not believe you have been to this part of Somerset."

            "I have not done much traveling at all," she said.

            "You have never been on the Continent?"

            "No." She forbore to mention that he had asked her that once before. "I know you have," she said, by way of a gentle reminder.

            "Yes, I have been to Paris."

            "It must be a beautiful city."

            "Yes, it is, very." Then he added abruptly, "Your sister Sylvia…"

            A pulse rose in Relena's throat and pounded there. "Yes?"

            "She lives in Cornwall?"

            "Yes, in Land's End. That is where Heero's estate is located. Though I must say that she much prefers London." Then other words rose in her throat, demanding utterance. She said, albeit reluctantly, "Sylvia is very beautiful, is she not?"

            "Yes." He nodded. "Very."

            She wished that he had not been in such haste to agree, but how could he not? "Sylvia," she continued bravely, "is the beauty of the family. The year she came out, she was voted an Incomparable by Beau Brummel and others at White's. The poor Beau, I do feel sorry for him, do you not?" she added, in hopes that she might change the subject.

            "Yes," he said gravely, "there will be many who will miss him, but one does make a great mistake to depend upon the favor of princes…and an even greater mistake to insult them." He was silent a moment, then, as if he could not help himself, he continued, "Your sister was married her first season?'

            "Yes, that was five years ago."

            "You will not be telling me that she is already in her twenties!"

            "Oh, yes," Relena said with melancholy satisfaction. "Sylvia will be twenty-four in October. Though certainly she does not appear that old."

            "No, I certainly never would have thought so," he agreed. "Does she have any children?"

            "Not as yet. It has been a great disappointment to her and to her husband," Relena explained, and felt her face grow hot as she remembered the main reason she was here in this coach and with Lord Marne's wide gold ring on the requisite finger.

            "_He must have an heir, my dear,_" her mother and her grandmother emphasized.

            "Many young women do not have children until later in life," Quatre said.

            "I expect they do not." Relena nodded. "Though my brother Milliardo was born less than a year after Mama was married."

            "How old is your brother?'

            "He will be thirty in August. Sally is two years younger, and Sylvia, as I told you. No one really expected me."

            "No, you are six years younger than Sylvia – a child, really."

            "I do not feel a child," Relena said defensively. "I am turned eighteen."

            "Yes, I do know that," he said teasingly. "I know all about you, Relena." Moving closer to her, he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

            In that moment it seemed to Relena that a whole bevy of shadows hovering in her mind flew out, losing themselves in the sky. She smiled up at him. "Do you know, Q-Quatre, I am very happy," she murmured.

            He slipped his arm around her shoulders, "We must see that you continue that way, my dear."

            She wished that he might have answered that he, too, was happy, but perhaps that is what he implied when his arm had tightened around her shoulders. She thrilled in the sensation of his closeness.

            It was nearly eight and the sun a dark streak of red on the western horizon when they reached the King's Rest, a large coaching inn outside of Reading. Built around a vast, cobble-stoned courtyard and with all its chambers on the second floor, the inn was welcome indeed to Relena. Though the coach was well sprung and the going reasonably smooth, there had been some rough stretches of road, resulting in a need to clutch the strap at her side to keep from being thrown to the floor. Furthermore, by eight, the excitement of the day had diminished, and she was feeling unexpectedly weary. Quatre, too, looked tired, and the chamber into which an obsequious innkeeper had showed them was a very welcome sight. Once the innkeeper had bowed himself out promising to send up the small repast Quatre had requested, Relena sank down in a wing chair.

            "Oh." She sighed. "This is comfortable, and it is also stationary!"

            "Coach travel can be strenuous, my dear." Quatre smiled at her. "I think we need not rise too early tomorrow morning."

            "T-that would be n-nice if it were no necessary," Relena stuttered, belatedly struck by the realization that she and her husband were alone in the chamber.

            He said, "I am glad you agree." Staring down at her, he added, "My love, I think that…that given the exigencies of road travel, it were better if we made use of separate rooms until we reach our destination."

            Casting a glance around the room, Relena suddenly noticed that there were two doors opening off this chamber. She said, "As you wish, Quatre," and was caught between relief and confusion as she remembered certain confidences embarrassedly vouchsafed by her mother concerning her wedding night.

            He regarded her anxiously. "You will not mind…waiting, then?"

            "No, of course not," she assured him. "It has been a wearisome day."

            "Indeed it has," he agreed, and bent to kiss her, his lips brushing her mouth. "You are a dear girl," he added gratefully.

            Later, after a repast Relena had hardly touched, being as she explained to Quatre, too tired to eat, she went to bed. Catherine, hovering about her, looked as if she wanted to say something, but on opening her mouth, she closed it. Finally, on bidding her mistress a constrained good night, she hurried out of the room, leaving Relena with the feeling of a spate of soundless comments hovering in the air behind her. There was, of course, no reason for her to weep into her pillow, and her tears were of short duration. It _had_ been a tiring day, tiring and trying, and might have been considerably less so had her sister Sylvia been delayed on the road.

            In his own chamber, Quatre, too, lay awake, guiltily aware that he should not be reveling in the wide expanse of mattress he was not sharing with anyone. Yet on flinging his arms out and drawing them back slowly to his sides, he was very glad that they had met with no impediment to a freedom he had experienced, if not enjoyed, for two years. He was enjoying it now, and he was also bitterly regretting having yielded to family pressure.

            Despite his fondness for Relena – and he was _fond_ of her, he assured himself – there was a vibrant memory of Dorothy, and once more he was assailed by the image that had haunted him off and on through the hours it had taken to reach the inn. Sylvia! Sylvia, who so resembled Dorothy and who was alive and infinitely desirable! To think of her was to want her, and he did not believe himself mistaken when he had read the same longing in her eyes, those incredibly beautiful blue-gray eyes!

            In the few moments during which they had been able to speak to each other, he had come to the belated realization that he had been far too willing to accede to the wishes of his aunt and his sister. He should have waited!

            "Waited for whom?" he murmured. "Another Sylvia?"

            There could be no other, he knew, and he was married. She, too, was married, but unhappily, as unhappily as himself, he realized with a shock, and what was he to do about that? He could seek an annulment – but he could not hurt poor Relena, he decided wretchedly. It was not her fault that her sister was so much more beautiful than herself, so infinitely more desirable, and who looked at him with Dorothy's eyes! She also possessed his late love's way of making him ache with longing for her. Furthermore, Sylvia had made him feel that she shared his passion. Indeed, when she had stood on tiptoe and let her lips brush his cheek, it had been all he could do not to embrace her before all the wedding guests! He was quite sure that Sylvia's failure to catch Relena's bouquet was her way of showing him just what she did feel for him.

            "Oh, God, God, God, what am I going to do?" He groaned. "I must see her again. Yet how?"

            There was no answer to that painful question. He could not leave the inn as he would like to do, leave his unwanted bride behind, leave his responsibilities behind and ride to Cornwall. He had to consider Relena when, at this particular moment, he almost hated her for needing him as much as he was sure she did.

            Sylvia had a husband, too, he reminded himself, but again, without resorting to speech, she had let him know that the handsome man she addressed as Heero meant little or nothing to her. In common with Romeo and his Juliet, he and Sylvia had locked glances for the first time and they had fallen in love forever! And what of Relena? There were duties he owed his bride.

            "No," he whispered. "Not yet, oh, God, not yet."

            He suddenly thought of a solution. Given the fine weather they were enjoying, he would try to reach his home as soon as possible. Then he would give Relena some excuse regarding a need to visit some outlying properties on his estate. He would explain that his tenants were giving him trouble. In that way he could postpone the need of betraying Sylvia by making love to his wife.

            A short time later Quatre was bitterly reprimanding himself for decisions that bordered on madness. He had undertaken a responsibility and her name was Relena, and even if he did not love her, would never love her, he would try to be her husband – at least until there was an heir.

            By the time they came in sight of the great stone posts with their wrought-iron, spear-tipped gates fronting the winding carriageway to Lord Marne's house, the present holder of the title was in a morose and self-accusatory mood.

            Quatre was, in fact, bitterly regretting what he now termed the aberration that seized him on what, for want of a better description, might be called his wedding night. Though his young bride, still sleeping in her virgin bed, had had no notion of his thoughts on occasion, he was still only too aware of the injustice he had done her. He, who had courted her for no other reason than the fact that he needed an heir, had been prepared to be unfaithful to her and with her sister Sylvia!

            A sigh escaped him. He had been quite sure that he would never fall in love again, and now, upon mature reflection, he told himself that he had _not_ fallen in love with Sylvia, and indeed, he had no notion of ever seeking her out. It had been an attraction based mainly on her astonishing likeness to Dorothy and on her beguiling little ways, something of which she, in her innocence, was, he knew, completely unaware.

            Furthermore, it was not of Sylvia he must think. He must consider Relena, whom he had liked from the start. It was not her fault that try as he had for the past twenty-four hours, he could not obliterate the memory of his beloved Dorothy, a memory that was growing more vivid with every revolution of the carriage wheels! And here, where once it had seemed perfectly natural to bring his bride to his home, it now seemed completely unnatural and an insult to the memory of poor Dorothy. He had a fugitive wish to tell his drive to turn the carriage around and go as fast as was possible in some other direction!

            _Cornwall._

            He actually shuddered as he wondered what had put that thought into his head. Cornwall and Sylvia, Sylvia-Dorothy. Think of neither, he ordered himself furiously.

            "Oh!" Relena suddenly exclaimed excitedly as the gatekeeper, alerted by the coachman's horn, appeared to open the gates. "Oh," she repeated as the coach moved forward up a curving driveway, "such tall trees! These are the woods of which you spoke, Quatre?"

            "They are a small part of them," he said with a surge of pride and pleasure at seeing the gate house. Though he owned houses in London and in Yorkshire, here was his home, where he had grown up, and it was here that he had brought his dearest Dorothy! He avoided looking at Relena as, unwillingly, he envisioned Dorohty sitting beside him as she had been on the first day of their marriage. Resolutely he banished that all too persistent image and smiled at Relena as he continued. "There are other woods beyond the castle, which, as I have explained, is really a house, save for the keep, which lies in ruins a short distance from the newer buildings. Ah, and here's old Peebles, the gatekeeper, come back to greet us. You must give him a nod and a smile as lady of the house."

            Relena smiled shyly as the carriage came to a stop. The gatekeeper's face was deeply lined and his hair was white. His eyes, deep blue, sparkled as he looked up at his master. "Ah, 'tis good to see ye, my lord."

            "It's good to see you, Peebles, good to be home again," Quatre said warmly. "This is Lady Marne, my wife."

            "Ah, it's welcome ye are, milady." The gatekeeper smiled back at her.

            "I thank you, Peebles. I am pleased to meet you," Relena told him shyly.

            In another few moments they were passing more trees, elms and oaks and red beeches on either side of the carriageway. Then the road turned abruptly and Relena saw the house that had taken the place of the castle – a long, tall building, its façade blindingly reflecting the sun from two rows of windows above and below and causing galaxies of red and blue spots to dance before Relena's eyes. A small mansard roof with dormer windows was encased by a marble fence running the length of the house, and she counted six windows and almost as many chimneys. As he had explained, it was not a castle, but she did glimpse what appeared to be a part of a keep on one side of the edifice, partially hidden by a pair of elms. And was she to live in this giant's dwelling? She wondered nervously. It did appear so very big – much larger than her home in the country. Inadvertently, she shivered.

            "Why are you shivering on such a warm day, my dear Relena?" Quatre asked.

            "Someone walked over my grave." She shrugged and subsequently was amazed and chagrined to see anger flash in Quatre's eyes.

            "That is an old wives' tale!" he exclaimed. "Death has no place in this homecoming, my dear Relena."

            She swallowed an obstruction in her throat. Quatre had seemed so angry, and it was not the first time she had aroused his ire with some foolish remark. "I meant nothing by it," she said apologetically.

            "No, no, of course you did not, my dear," he apologized hastily, slipping his arm around her waist. "You must forgive me. I am never at my best on long journeys. We will both need to rest once we are indoors. Would you not like that, my dear?"

            "Oh, yes, it would be pleasant," she agreed shyly.

            "I think I have not told you about the servants, or have I?"

            "No, you have not," she said.

            "Well, they are under the rule of Mrs. Wilson, who has been in the household since my father's time. She is a most capable woman. Of course, you might want to make some changes in the staff. It is your prerogative, of course."

            "Oh, no, I am sure I will find all your arrangements most satisfactory," she said quickly, feeling and not knowing quite why he did not want any changes in the staff.

            "Very good," he said approvingly. "My wife…my late wife was of your mind. She did not trouble herself over household arrangements. She was content to leave everything to Mrs. Wilson."

            "Did you live here most of the year?" Relena asked.

            "Yes, Dorothy was extremely fond of the country, as I hope you will be too."

            "Oh, yes, I much prefer it to London," she could tell him with perfect truth.

            "Indeed?" He regarded her quizzically, almost as if, she thought, he did not quite believe her. "Do you really?'

            "I really do. As you know, I do enjoy riding." She flushed, reminded of her fall in the park, the fall that had somehow resulted in his offer. She continued, "I am not generally as clumsy as I was in the park that day, and I do prefer a less restricted area. I shall enjoy riding through these woods."

            "I hope you will also enjoy inviting some of the families who live nearby. In my wife…in Dorothy's day we rather neglected our social obligations. We were both so young and…"

            "You wanted to be together," Relena finished, feeling a slight twinge of regret that he obviously did not regard her in that same light – but of course she was being foolish. As her mother had told her more than once, he was not marrying for love. He needed an heir.

            "Ah," Quatre said. "Here we are."

            Relena gazed out of the window and found herself a few paces away from a huge oaken door and realized that they were directly in front of the great house that she was not to call home. As the carriage drew to a stop, Bob, one of the footmen, opened the door and set the steps before it. Quatre, climbing out, helped Relena down the steps at the same time that the front door swung open, and in the aperture stood a tall, dignified man of about sixty-four or sixty-five, Relena thought. He was beaming at Quatre.

            "Your lordship and milady, welcome home!" he exclaimed warmly.

            Quatre smiled back at him. "Thank you, Wilson." He turned to Relena. "My dear, this is Mr. Wilson, our butler. He has been here since…before I was born."

            Relena smiled up at him. "I am glad to meet you, Wilson."

            "It is my pleasure, your ladyship." The butler bowed and added, "The others will be in the hall, sir."

            "Yes, of course." Quatre nodded. He added, "You will need to stand back, Wilson, as I carry my bride inside."

            "Oh, must you?" Relena asked worriedly, all too aware of her weight, which she feared might even have increased during their two and a half days on the road. The meals she had eaten had been delicious, and she had not stinted herself.

            "I must, my dear. It is a custom."

            "Well, if you must…" she began, and then gasped as Quatre easily lifted her and carried her over the threshold, setting her down just inside a vast hall with patterned marble floors and a wide staircase winding gracefully up to the first floor.

            However, much as Relena wanted to look longer at the sculptured plaster ceiling and its huge center chandelier, she could not ignore the servants, a large group of men and women, some elderly and a great many quite young – footmen, housemaids, under-housemaids, a heavyset woman who looked like a cook and standing with three grinning young underlings who must be her helpers. And, of course, the woman coming forward, small and probably in her late fifties, with a plain pleasant face and a welcoming smile, must be the housekeeper. Her black gown and her white apron and the keys at her waist proclaimed her position.

            "Your ladyship." She curtsied.

            Quatre said, "Here is Mrs. Wilson, our housekeeper, my dear."

            "Mrs. Wilson," Relena repeated. "I am glad to know you…would you be related to the butler?"

            "I am that, your ladyship. We have been wed these forty years come September. And it's glad I am to welcome you. As you can see, our staff bids you welcome too."

AN: So sorry I took such a long time to update this story. I actually had to split this chapter into two different parts because it turned out to be 11 pages. I thought that might've been too long. That's why the end is so abrupt. Then again, I don't proclaim to be the best cliffhanger-writer. Thanks to all the wonderful people who reviewed. ^_^ Means a lot. For those who joined my mailing list, I sent out **both** parts to say thanks for joining the list. 


	5. Chapter 4b

Disclaimer: My butt your lips. Kiss it. (Stupid I know.)

**The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 4b)**

            In the next half hour Relena, repeating names and greeting each member of the household, promised herself to procure a list of each name and position, something her mother had suggested she do. It had been an ordeal she had feared, but it had passed quickly enough, and the group disbanded with only Mr. And Mrs. Wilson remaining. She had read approval in the housekeeper's eyes, and she was much relieved, for she had feared she would be compared most unfavorably to the beautiful Dorothy.

            "I have a small repast prepared, my lord," the housekeeper said. "If you would care to partake of it now, it is ready."

            "That would be delightful, Mrs. Wilson," Quatre replied, "but I think it were best if we rested for an hour or two. It has been a long and tiring journey." He turned to Relena. "Unless you would care for something now, my dear?"

            "Oh, no," she assured him hastily. "I feel much in need of a rest, myself." She glanced at Catherine, standing near the door, and added regretfully, "Oh, dear, I fear I have been remiss. Catherine!" she called. As the girl came to her side she added, "This is Catherine Barton, my Abigail, Mrs. Wilson."

            "Good afternoon, my dear," the housekeeper said cordially as Catherine bobbed a curtsy. "Should you like to come with me, then?"

            "Oh, no, ma'am," Catherine said shyly. "I'd best do for her ladyship."

            "Very well." Mrs. Wilson gave her an approving smile. "If you wish to find me later, one of the footmen will direct you."

            "I do thank you, ma'am," Catherine curtsied.

            "Come, then, my dear." Quatre took Relena's arm, and followed by his valet and by Catherine, they walked up the wide stairs to the first floor. On reaching the top, he dismissed his valet, telling him to show Lucy to her ladyship's chamber. "I thought," he said as he turned back to Relena, "you might want to see some part of the house – your house, my dear."

            She was very tired, but instinctively she felt that he was proud of his home and eager to note her reaction.

            "I most certainly do want to see it," she assured him.

            Some forty minutes later Relena stood alone in a large bedchamber, beyond which lay a sitting room, and beyond that, her husband's suite of rooms. She had not seen these, but he had shown her a great deal of the first floor, taking her through the drawing room, which, in coming with that of her own house, opened into a small antechamber and thence into the dining room. She was pleased by the arrangement mainly because she was used to it. The chambers in the newer houses did not lead one into the next but were set off from each other with doors opening on long halls. On the same line with the dining room was the conservatory, which Quatre had showed her with some little reluctance.

            "This was one of my wife's favorite chambers." He had indicated the numerous plants standing in pots on long tables, or hung in the windows, or rising from the floor. Little cards attached to each busy or flower indicated their Latin designation, their common name, an the family to which they belonged. These, written in a flowing hand, were, Quatre explained, the work of the late Lady Marne. He had added, "She bought many of these, and the others were from her conservatory at home. She called this her winter garden, and she took wonderful care of her plants. _They_ are still healthy and flourishing." His suggestion that he wished his wife might have remained in a similar condition had made Relena extremely uncomfortable. Indeed, she had longed to cut short the tour until he was better rested, but she was wary about putting herself forward. He might resent such suggestions from her. In fact, as she left the conservatory, she had a most uncomfortable suspicion that Quatre, in his own mind, still regarded himself as the husband of the late Dorothy. She did come to the conclusion that she would not tend the plants in the conservatory. She would leave that to the servants, mainly because she was sure he would not want her to undertake that particular task.

            He had managed to subdue his woe when he showed her the library, which lay just beyond the portrait gallery. He had taken her through the gallery with a swiftness she regretted, but she had momentarily forgotten her wish to see the portrait of his late wife, as she found herself among masses of books – books she had itched to examine, but again the progress through the library had been similarly swift. She had seen the large desk, with drawers that must contain writing paper. There had been a silver inkstand on top of the desk, and she had glimpsed several feathered pens. Her mother would be expecting a letter from her, and so would her grandmother, and though she had refuted the idea of being a bluestocking, she would not mind trying to write.

            She sighed. She wished she had not thought of bluestockings, for that brought Sylvia to mind. Sylvia, who had been angry on her wedding day, who had refused to catch her bouquet, and who had looked as if she hated her, but, Relena reminded herself, she would be hating her at a distance – since Cornwall lay at least as far from Somerset as London. Yet on thinking of it, she realized that Sylvia was no more than two days away. If she should take it into her mind…but of course she would not want to visit _her,_ and it was ridiculous to borrow trouble. She had trouble enough already with a husband who did not love her, could never love her, since there appeared to be room in his heart only for his Dorothy.

            Furthermore, she must not resent Dorothy even if her hold on him was the stronger because of her early and tragic death. As she must needs remind herself, with the exception of a very few in her circles, love meant very little. Men married for the dowry and the heritage, and she had both. She also had a husband who was her friend. Given her appearance, she could ask for nothing more. Hard on that thought, she remembered Mrs. Wilson's mention of a repast. She had not been hungry then, but she was finding herself quite hungry now.

            Had she better ask Quatre if he wished to have something to eat, or would it be better…a tap on the door, a door which led to the sitting room, scattered her thoughts. She opened it hastily and found Quatre there. He was looking regretful. "My dear," he said. "the most unfortunately set of circumstances has arisen."

            A pulse in her throat began to pound. "What has happened?" she asked in some alarm.

            "Ah, you must not worry," he said hastily. "A matter of great importance has come up, and I must leave first thing in the morning, which means that I will have to retire early. The exigencies of travel make it imperative that I have all the rest I can get. I fear I will have to remain by myself this night." He cleared his throat nervously. "I…I hope you will not mind."

            Relena, looking up at him, found his glance evasive. She said, "I quite understand. I, myself, am very tired. I do hope you sleep well. Will you be gone long?"

            "No, I should be back by tomorrow evening at the latest." He moved to her and bore her hand to his lips. "I do thank you for your understanding, my dear – and now, would you like to come downstairs for a little supper?"'

            "Oh, yes, very much," Relena assured him brightly.

            Later, upon retiring, Relena evaded Catherine's surprised gaze and talked brightly of all she had seen in the house, adding that she hoped to visit the gardens and the woods on the following day. "And when I am a little more rested, I think I will go riding."

            "It looks to be a fine place for riding, milady," Catherine commented.

            Relena nodded. "Oh, yes, indeed it does." She had caught a strain of sympathy in the abigail's tone that she wished were not present. _She_ did not feel sorry for herself. The fact that she had not experienced a wedding night in every sense of the word was hardly a tragedy. It was obvious that Quatre was too disturbed by all the reminders of his lost wife to make love to her replacement – if one could call her that. One had to be in love to make love, and while she was sure Quatre liked her, she was equally sure that he did not love her. But they were friends, and that was something.

            In many marriages contracted by those of her class, the participants were actually enemies. Quatre was certainly not her enemy. He only missed his first wife, whom he so rarely mentioned by whose presence had been with them throughout every minute of their journey from London and was even stronger here. _Dorothy._

            Relena had never believed in ghosts – despite the fact that many of her friends and acquaintances mentioned "drafts" in windowless rooms and mysterious "cold spots" which they believed signified the lingering presence of some family skeleton turned spirit.

            Her house in the country had remained singularly free of such entities, but she did believe in pervasive memories, which could, on occasion, be more powerful than ghosts. Her mother was afflicted by memories of her late husband, and though she never mentioned these to her daughters, Relena had always been able to tell when Lady Peacecraft had dreamed of him – by her mood on the following day.

            Dorothy was just such a memory, she was sure; and sure, too, that the objects she had touched, the corridors through which she had walked and the conservatory where she had tended her plants, each so painstakingly identified, was replete with her presence. Tears of sympathy stood in her eyes, and she blinked them away hastily for fear Catherine might believe she was weeping for herself.

            On rising at eight the following morning, Relena learned that Quatre had left the house at six. She found herself in an odd mood – caught somewhere between disappointment and relief. His sorrow for his wife had filled her with sympathy, but at the same time, it was difficult to offer consolation for a loss that had provided her with a husband she loved, even though he would never feel the same about her. Still, he had rescued her from a fate she had anticipated from her fifteenth year onward. She had believed herself doomed to follow in the wake of other plain girls whose purpose in life was to be a "prop" to Mama.

            Lady Nell Colgrave, one of her good friends, occupied such an unenviable position. Her mother, a confirmed invalid who lay all day on a cough of pain, had need of such a prop. Lady Peacecraft, on the other hand, did not. Her busy, bustling parent had heaved many a sigh when she believed Relena not attending. It had been obvious that she had had little belief in her daughter's ability to get a husband, and Jane's prediction had angered her – because of what she had imagined to be the futility of introducing her plain daughter to the London scene for the whole of an unfruitful season. Now she was preening herself like a peacock because, of her three daughters, Relena had made the most brilliant match!

            "Married for an heir, married for an heir, married for an heir." The words beat against Relena's consciousness, but though tears threatened, she would not let them fall! She had very little to weep about. She was in a lovely house, which she had not seen in its entirety, and which she would explore in her leisure, of which she had plenty. She would start now—or as soon as she was dressed— and she would begin with the portrait gallery. Above everything in this household, she wanted most to view the portrait of the late Lady Marne. She rang for Catherine.

            Fortunately the portraits were grouped by centuries, and though a quick glance promised future rewards, Relena passed hastily along the polished floor of the long chamber until she found the painting she sought. It proved very easy to locate—mainly because the late Dorothy had chosen to be painted as a nymph, posed amid trees and holding a book in her hand, which she was not perusing. Yet she gave the impression of having been interrupted while reading just for the second (minutes, hours, days) it took for the artist to capture her on canvas. Her hair, long and silvery-blond, was caught by a vagrant breeze, and one silver lock strayed across her forehead. Her great eyes were vividly blue, and a small, mysterious smile played about her lips. She seemed caught in some happy dream, and she did remind Relena of a nymph—more specifically, she reminded her of Sylvia! And was that why when her sister had appeared at the wedding reception, Quatre had become so thoughtful and distracted, a condition that yet remained? Tears filled her eyes. She had been right to fear Sylvia!

            Yet on second thought, Sylvia was married, and she could not leave her house at a moment's notice to visit her sister, or how would she explain it to Heero? She gazed up at the portrait, and those great eyes, Sylvia's eyes, seemed to be telling her that she had always done exactly as she pleased and in that way she, Dorothy, was no different from Sylvia – facial features-wise.

            She left the gallery, moving swiftly, almost on a run, and went into the library. However, for once in her life the wealth of reading matter, which, in other circum­stances, must have absorbed her completely, did not interest her. She left the library and was met by a harried-looking young footman, who appeared very pleased to see her,

            "If you please, your ladyship, there'll be a visitor. Lady Orville come to see you."

            "To see me?" Relena demanded in some surprise. It was no more than half past the hour often, and certainly she had not anticipated visitors on this, her first day in her husband's home! Yet she must needs get to know her neighbors. Perhaps Lady Orville had been Dorothy's good friend and might inadvertently let fall some information about her.

            "I will see her . . . George, is it?"

            "Aye, your ladyship." He looked gratified by her accurate recollection of his name. "George it be, right enough. I'll show her into the drawing room, shall I?"

            "Please, and tell her that I will be there directly."

            Returning to her chamber, Relena scanned herself in the glass and pushed back a fallen lock of hair with a sigh. She feared that Lady Orville would find her a poor replacement for the beauty. Sighing a second time, she went down to meet her first guest.

            As Relena started into the drawing room she thought as she had yesterday afternoon that it badly needed refur­bishing. It was decorated in gold and white—not Dorothy's taste, Quatre had told her. She had not cared to change the furnishings, though. She had been content to let his late mother's taste prevail. Relena thought some of the chairs needed recovering, and a repainting would certainly enhance the dingy woodwork. Yet she wondered if her husband wanted such repairs. She had a feeling that he might prefer everything to remain as it had during Dorothy's lifetime, and once more she wondered nervously what Lady Orville would think about her. Probably she had been a dear friend of the late Lady Maine and was here as a scout to spread the news about the present wife. Looking around, she did not see her visitor.

            Then, suddenly, and with the swiftness of a nesting quail disturbed by a hunter's gun, a petite woman who had been sitting in a wing chair rose and said in a deep voice, "You are Lady Marne?"

            Relena, tensing and barely swallowing an incipient cry of surprise as she looked up at a tall, attractive young woman who she guessed to be no more than twenty-four or five, said, "Yes, I am Lady Marne."

            "Well!" Lady Orville said, "I am extremely pleased to see you. It is time that the mournful Marne doffed his weeds and loosed his turtledoves. Did I startle you? I am sorry, it was not intentional. On occasion it is intentional. From my early youth there has been nothing more exhilarating to me than to create an unforgettable im­pression. I should have been an actress, but birth and breeding prevented my being a 'poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more…a tale told by an idiot' and so forth. I fear you will imagine that I am that idiot. Have I?"

            "I ... I am not sure." Relena found herself swallowing a threatening giggle. "I am not sure what you mean."

            "Then I have not created an unforgettable impression?"

            "Oh, you have." Relena's giggle escaped.

            "Ah, very good! Do you know that I once tried this same entrance—I am known for my entrances—on the late Lady Marne, and to my utter chagrin, I do not believe she noticed. But enough, I am extremely pleased to meet you. I know that I have already said as much, but this time I mean it in all sincerity."

            "I am also pleased to meet you." Relena was surprised, amused, and, she decided, extremely drawn to her ladyship, despite her eccentric manner.

            "I would think you were less pleased than surprised," Lady Orville said frankly. "You have not been here more than a day. You arrived yesterday, and lest you be astonished that news travels so fast, let it be said that one of your footmen is walking out with my abigail, Betsy. That is the way news travels here. Betsy is a fund of useful information. You would be surprised to know what I know, and I would, no doubt, be surprised to know what is known about me. If you are minded to engage in a flirtation, be assured that I will hear about it directly the moment the first assignation is arranged—or almost. I and every other household from here to Glastonbury."

            "I would not be so minded," Relena said.

            "Not now, of course, when you are but recently married, but occasionally husbands can wear on one. I am not speaking of my own husband, Duo, but in general. You look as if you might possess a sense of humor. Do you?"

            "I expect I do." Relena smiled. "Will you not sit down, Lady Orville?"

            "Yes, I will." She sank back in the wing chair again. "You will find that I have taken the most comfortable chair in this chamber—however, that sofa is well enough and we can face each other. I hope that you mean to make some changes here. Dorothy was occupied with higher things—comfort was not one of them. I am pleased, too, that you are reasonably tall. The late Dorothy was a little thing, you know."

            "She did not look little in her portrait," Relena said with some surprise.

            "Oh, blast John Kildare. In common with Romney, whose disciple he is, he is inclined to flatter his subjects. No one will ever tell me that Lady Hamilton was ever as exquisite as he depicted her. She was really quite common, and looked it. That is not to say that I approve the shocking way in which she died in Calais last year. The government ought to have honored Nelson's last wishes—even if she were a whore, which she might have been in one sense but not in another—and the nation has honored whores before. I speak of Charles II, who was always enobling his mistresses and their bastards. However, I expect it does take a king to do that, and George III, poor man, is mad, and the prince is bad…not bad, really. I expect that Nelson's wishes were not in his power to grant. However, to comment upon your observation, Dorothy was quite small, and I do wish that Kildare had not painted her in green. She wore it incessantly afterward. I do hope that green is not one of your favorite shades."

            "Actually, it is not," Relena said, striving to swallow her laughter.

            "No, you would look far better in pink."

            Fearing that the topic of Dorothy might soon be exhausted due to Lady Orville's habit of leaping from one subject to the next, Relena said hastily, "I expect you must have known Dorothy rather well."

            "No one knew Dorothy rather well," Lady Orville said. "In common with the poet Wordsworth, she was enchanted with nature and kept to herself a great deal, communing with the woods. I saw her only when I gave a dinner party… She, I might mention, rarely entertained. She preferred to go to bed early so that she might be up at dawn; wandering through the 'dew-touched grasses'—her description, never mine. The only time I see the 'dew-touched grasses' is when I am off on a foxhunt. Oh, dear, you should not have asked me about Dorothy. I am inclined to become entirely too verbose on the subject." She paused and directed a piercing look at Relena. "I like you a great deal better."

            "You do not know me!" Relena exclaimed.

            "To see you is to like you," Lady Orville responded frankly. "I am extremely intuitive. And I am quite sure that marrying you is the most sensible thing that young Quatre ever did—where is he, by the way?"

            "He had to leave early this morning," Relena explained, "I… I think he must still miss her, you know." She flushed, wondering why she had favored Lady Orville with such a confidence. Had her mother heard her, she must have been shocked to the bone. "I mean—"

            "My dear child," Lady Orville interrupted, "I am quite sure you meant exactly what you said, and unfortu­nately you are probably quite right. He took her death very hard, and of course it was tragic about the child—a son, I have heard. Still—and I am going to be quite unnaturally frank with you—he eventually would have suffered even more if she had lived. Men in love don blinders from time to time, but the day comes when those blinders fall off… Dorothy's early death precluded that. Consequently he never learned that rather marrying a swan, he had wed a goose. Gracious me!" Lady Orville stood up. "We must be friends, else husband, who is extremely fond of Quatre, will never forgive me. You will not tell him what I have said out of my very real friendship for you…I do like you. You seem to grow more appealing by the minute—even though I have done all the talking. You must say that you will be my friend."

            "But I am…I am already your friend," Relena cried. "I liked you the minute I saw you—and I like you even more now."

            "I am delighted to hear it," Lady Orville returned with a lovely smile. "We live close to each other, close as it is read in the fewest miles distant. You can see the towers of our castle from the edge of your park. Of course, there is a great stretch of fields, pastures, et cetera, between. I am going to give one of my dinner parties and you will come and see the pile in which we reside. Unfortunately it was not destroyed in the days of Cromwell… though the Roundheads did practice shooting in the main hail. You will find bullet marks in the ancient suits of armor.

where naught but spears had grazed before. Does that not sound as if I were talking about cows instead of spears? No matter, my dear Lady Marne, but you will not be Lady Marne to me, nor I Lady Orville to you. I am Hilde, hardly suitable for me, and you are…"

            "Relena." The owner of that name laughed.

            "Relena." Lady Orville cocked her head and studied Relena's face. "Yes," she said finally. "I do believe Relena does suit you. Hilde, on the other hand, should belong to someone small and fly away, another Dorothy, perhaps, but we do not choose our names, do we? I must leave." She bent and kissed Relena on the cheek. "My dear child, take heart. He…cannot fail to appreciate you once he realizes his good fortune. And remember, I am Hilde to you, Relena."

            "I…I will remember, Hilde," Relena said gratefully.

            She felt much happier after Lady Orville left. She had made a friend, and one who had given her hope that upon due reflection, her husband might begin to feel more comfortable with her, even if he never learned to love her.

Author's Note: Also expect chapter 5 to be split. I think it might be longer than this one…thanks for reviewing everyone.


	6. Chapter 5

Note: So very sorry for getting this chapter out so, so late. I was caught up in the glory of summer vacation but alas, it has almost come to an end. I know there are those who must be feeling the same as I. Therefore, I hope this may be of some consolation. It's a long chapter so don't forget to get some munchies before you start. =)

**The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 5)**

            Quatre walked through the woods, his woods, on the way to the house. The sun was darkly orange against the western horizon, and the clouds were edged with its dimming brightness. The leaves of the trees made an elliptical pattern against the golden sky.

            If Dorothy had been with him, she would have mentioned the leaves, the murmuring, wind-shaken leaves. She might also have spoken of the drowsy chirp­ing of the birds—except that they were not really drowsy, for twilight had yet to descend. Dorothy had loved the twilight. He remembered her walking beside him and quoting Wordsworth and other nature-loving poets. In this moment he was remembering a passage from Dante. It seemed singularly descriptive of his own mood, and he muttered it under his breath as he reluc­tantly headed toward a path that must bring him out of the woods.

            "'In the middle of the journey of life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost…'" However, Dante had found someone to lead him forth from the darkness and to show him a glimpse of heaven—Virgil. No such mythic guide awaited him. Instead he would be coming home to another woman, not Dorothy, one he would find easily enough when be came into his house.

            Quatre groaned. At this moment he found himself hating and even loathing his aunt and his sister for urging him to marry again. No, they had not urged, they had insisted that he do so. He had done their bidding, had married, and had not even dreamed what it might mean for him to install his new young wife here in a place Dorothy had made her own!

            "Dorothy," he murmured. "Oh, Dorothy, where have you gone?"

            As usual, there was no answer. There had been a time when in the depth of his grief he had fallen on his knees and begged her to return. He had reminded the silence that he had friends who spoke of lingering ancestral ghosts. He had begged Dorothy to haunt him, haunt the room she loved—the conservatory. He had spent night after night in there—praying, beseeching her elusive spirit to manifest itself, crying out for a sign, a rustle of a curtain on a windless night, a coldness on the floor in the heat of summer, a whisper in his ear!

            Alas, she had remained as elusive in death as she had been in life. Much as he bad loved her, he had never really plumbed the depths of her soul. She had remained elusive and mysterious, infinitely tantalizing. Indeed, she was the very antithesis of Relena, plump, matter-of-fact Relena, blunt of speech and not an ounce of mystery in her entire being!

            He already knew her through and through and was uncomfortably aware that she loved him. He would eventually have to go through the motions, if not the emotions, of love and pretend to a passion he would never feel. Of course, Relena, frank and forthright, would not understand that. She and subtlety were strangers, and of course, she was half a child.

            A memory of Bartholomew Fair brought with it a host of images. Relena had been so excited as they had visited the various booths and tents. Her eyes had been bright as stars as she gazed at the puppets, the waxworks, the dancers, and the freaks. No, he thought, not the freaks. It had been Dorothy who had found them so amusing when they had visited their tents during a county fair outside of Taunton.

            Relena had been distressed to think of them being on display and suffering such long hours in a hot and ill-smelling tent. She had been highly indignant at the rude remarks and loud laughter their conditions invited. She had hurried him through the tent, but she had insisted that they give more money than was asked so that the poor pig-faced woman might be rewarded for her anguish. He had not had the heart to tell her that those who exploited the creature would probably pocket the money without giving her so much as a groat. He had not wanted to disillusion her and spoil the day's pleasure.

            Had it been a pleasant day? Tolerably, he decided. She had been so excited and pleased that he had been pleased, too, and had enjoyed himself more than he had anticipated. Yet if he had met her sister Sylvia before the wedding...

            It would have made no difference, he reminded him­self quickly. Sylvia was married too. She lived in Cornwall ... he hoped that she would remain in Cornwall, and forbore to dwell on the reasons for that hope. Quickening his steps, he strode out of the woods and was soon on the way to the north porch. He had not sent word that he was returning, mainly because he feared that Relena might come running to meet him as Dorothy had—drifting out of the doorway, gliding across the porch, as graceful as she was exquisite—a nymph, an houri, a goddess!

            If Relena were less large, he might compare her to a. . . but he did not want to think of comparisons. It was not really fair. Relena was Relena, unexciting, unmysterious, rich, well born, and undoubtedly would be a good mother to the children she would give him. As for love, he had known it once and reveled in its glory. Such ecstasy could not occur twice in a lifetime. He must settle for affection. He did like Relena. She was immensely likable, immensely placid too. He doubted that she had a temperamental bone in her whole body. And she did have a nice little sense of humor, something Dorothy had never possessed—at least not in abundance, but that had never really mattered. And contrary to what Iria said, she was not dense. Dorothy had been dreamy. . . . He groaned as his late wife once more replaced Relena in his thoughts, bringing grief and frustration with her.

            "Not yet. . . not yet," a voice deep inside him cried. "Another day, make love to Relena, but, please, please, my dear, not this night." Was that a voice in his head, or had Dorothy finally come to him? It did not matter, he would obey the command.

            "You are looking unhappy today, Relena," Lady Orville said. "Did not your lord come home yesterday, as promised? But I am sure he did. My girl told me so. Servants always know, as I think I have told you. I am convinced they keep their ears to the ground, as it is said red Indians do in the wilds of America."

            Relena smiled. One had to smile at Lady Orville's teasing, no matter how one felt. "He did return," she acknowledged, "but he was in one of his melancholy moods, and I really did not even see him. He went directly to his chamber, and his valet informed me that he was wearied from the exigencies of travel. When I rose this morning, I was told that he was conferring with his bailiff about some matters pertaining to the estate."

            "Damn and blast the estate. . . damn and blast the exigencies of travel!" Lady Orville cried. "Of all the self-indulgent, totally selfish men who ever existed on this planet since the beginning of time, your so-called husband wins the golden apple! And I even hesitate to call him 'your husband'! He has yet to assume that mantle! If I were you, my dear, I would leave him to wallow in his grief. . ." She paused, looking into Relena's unhappy face. "Unfortunately I am not you, and I doubt that you will ever mete out to Quatre the treatment he so richly deserves. I am going to give my threatened dinner, and I will subsequently present him with a piece of my mind which he might not find totally indigestible."

            "Oh, I beg you will not," Relena protested.

            "You may beg all you choose, my dear, but I will not heed you." Lady Orville glared at her. "You really do annoy me, Relena, much as I like you. If you had any backbone at all, you would…" She sighed. "But never mind, let us enjoy the day and the ride." She paused and then added thoughtfully, "You could not possibly fall off your horse and come back muddied and with a few interesting bruises? That might gain his pity, but no, you are too damned straightforward to result to the under­handed. Still, 'hold! He that is coming must be provided for and you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch,' which should have an excellent bearing on 'all your nights and days to come.' There are times, my dearest Relena, when it is better to be Lady Macbeth than Juliet."

            Relena laughed and then sighed. "I have a sister, Sylvia. If only I resembled her. She has rather the look of his late wife."

            "Then I will detest her sight unseen," Lady Orville said firmly. "Where does the creature live?"

            "She lives in Cornwall."

            "I hope she was not present at your wedding."

            "I had hoped she would not come, myself, but—" Relena broke off. "I mean—"

            "I am sure that you mean exactly what you say," Lady Orville interrupted. She continued. "I hope she lives on one of the Isles of Scilly."

            "She does live in Land's End." Relena smiled.

            "Well, that is almost as good. It is a reasonable distance from here, but not as far as Scotland. What a pity that she does not reside in the Highlands."

            "You do not know Sylvia," Relena said, feeling a belated need to defend her if only on the grounds that she was her sister.

            "Actually I feel that I do," was the enigmatic response. "Do you know, Relena, dear, since a suit of armor is used these days only for decorative purposes, it might be well were you to develop some manner of interior armor. But come, we have talked long enough. Let us be on our way. Has your husband ever ridden with you?"

            "In the park," Relena said, preferring not to describe the ramifications attendant on that ride.

            "He ought to ride with you here. You are a veritable Amazon—but enough, I have had my say. Let us go."

            "Please," Relena said. She had been finding Lady Orville's barbed comments more disturbing than usual, emphasizing as they did Quatre's determined withdrawal from her. It was time that he recognized the fact that Dorothy was no more, and he was wed to another!

            "Very good," Lady Orville commented.

            "I beg your pardon?" Relena asked confusedly.

            "My dear Relena, you have a face that speaks volumes. I beg you will put your thoughts into words. I challenge you, do it once we have returned from our ride."

            "I will," Relena said, surprising herself.

            "Lovely." Lady Orville's smile had become a grin.

            Two hours later Relena, returning to the stables, felt exhilarated by her ride and, furthermore, determined to accede to her friend's persuasions and also to herself on the subject of Quatre's prolonged mourning. She was not sure how best to approach the matter, but approach it she would. As she rode into the stable yard, some of her determination fled, for he was there, talking with one of the grooms. A greeting trembled on her lips and was swallowed as he turned quickly.

            "Good morning, my dear." He came toward her, and much to her relief, he was smiling.

            "Good morning, Quatre," she returned shyly, adding unnecessarily, "I have been riding."

            "So I see. . . and as usual your seat on a horse is excellent. But why did you not take a groom with you?"

            "I met Hilde . . . Lady Orville."

            "Ah, Lady Orville. A pleasant young woman, I be­lieve."

            "She is extremely pleasant."

            "Here. Let me help you down from your horse."

            "That is not necessary, Quatre," Relena said quickly, and hurriedly dismounted. The excitement of having her husband help her would be, alas, vitiated by the fact that he might need to hold her briefly. Her weight would be a sad strain on him, and he would certainly find the contrast between herself and the willowy Dorothy even more pronounced.

            He laughed as she stood before him on the ground. "It seems that I have wed an independent woman." Moving forward, he took the reins from her hands and signaled to a groom. As the man led the horse away, he said, "You are already on a first-name basis with Lady Orville?"

            "She insisted that we must be. I do find her charming." Relena spoke a little anxiously, realizing that she had not really known the lady long enough to use her given name.

            "Well, that is as it should be. I do want you to become acquainted with the other families around here, my dear."

            "Lady Orville has spoken of inviting us to dinner."

            "Has she, indeed? Well, I am pleased. And you do like her?"

            There was a thread of surprise winding through his words, and Relena, remembering that the late Dorothy had not warmed to the lady, said quickly. "Oh, yes, I do very much. She called here the first day, and I liked her immediately."

            "Indeed?" He regarded her quizzically. "Well, I am pleased to hear it. Duo, her husband, has long been my good friend—even though we have seen relatively little of each other in the last years. But do you not find Lady Orville singularly outspoken?"

            From his tone Relena gathered that the late Dorothy had not been sparing in her comments. She hoped that he had not become totally prejudiced against her new friend. She said warmly, "Oh, no. I admire frankness."

            "Do you? Well, then, I am sure that you and Lady Orville will become fast friends. I have been told that she is nothing if not frank."

            "That is true." Relena laughed. "I find it very refreshing. So many people think it necessary to say what they believe a person would like to hear rather than what they really think. Lady Orville does not scruple to tell the truth. And I have always preferred honesty to facile compliments."

            "I must agree," he said. He added abruptly, "I hope you are not weary from your ride?"

            "Oh, not at all! I do love to ride, and your horses are so easy to control."

            "I imagine rather that you find them easy to control. But, my dear, what would you say to a drive around the district? I would like to show you some of the sights of which we who are Somerset-born are very proud."

            "Oh"—Relena smiled.—"I should like that above all things."

            "Above all things?" Quatre repeated with a smile. "You are remarkably easy to please, my dear Relena."

            Relena wished that she dared tell him that her pleasure in the forthcoming excursion came from the promise of his company, but shyness put its usual harness on her tongue. She said diffidently, "I have always wanted to know more about Somerset."

            "I hope I will have increased your knowledge by the time the day is over," he said congenially.

            It was delightful to sit with Quatre in the post chaise. Relena had expected he would ride outside as he had done throughout much of their journey from London. Howev­er, there was no saddle horse attached to the vehicle, and Quatre, pointing out various points of interest to her, seemed perfectly content to be at her side. Indeed, she was reminded of the time when he had taken her up in his curricle and driven her around London. She had little dreamed that the invitation was tantamount to a propo­sal of marriage. He had been very companionable that day, and he seemed in that same mood now as they came into Glastonbury.

            "We will stop here," he said, breaking into Relena's thoughts. As the coachman dutifully brought the vehicle to a halt, Quatre opened the door and sprang out, saying as the startled footman put the steps up, "I will help my wife to descend."

            Relena, flushed with excitement, put out her hand and felt her flush deepen as her husband seized it in his warm grasp. She was further thrilled when, after instructing the coachman where and when to await him, he took her arm, saying, "I do hope you will enjoy this little excur­sion. My father took me to Glastonbury when I was eleven or thereabouts, and I can still remember how excited I was to be in a place where King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were supposed to have been buried. I had yet to learn that they had no more reality than Jack the Giant Killer."

            "We cannot be sure about that," Relena said shyly.

            His smile was gently derisive. "Oh, and will you tell me that you belong to those who believe that if England's soldiers are ever driven to the wall by an alien invader, King Arthur and his knights will rise from sleep and go galloping to her rescue?"

            "I do not believe that, but still, someone similar to King Arthur might have lived," Relena said. "It was all such a very long time ago."

            "I am not saying that I would not like to believe in them," Quatre said thoughtfully.

            'They do say that there is always a grain of truth to every legend," Relena commented.

            "A rather small grain, I would think. "But come, let us walk."

            "Please," Relena said with alacrity.

            It was a pretty place, and it drew a great many sightseers on this warm day. Several young women had set up easels and were doing watercolors of the Abbey ruins, something Relena wished she might do. Sylvia was adept at painting and had already produced some excel­lent watercolors. Several of these hung in the parlor at home, and a visiting artist had commented upon her ability. Relena wished she had not thought of Sylvia. Every time she did, her old feelings of inadequacy swept over her.

            "My dear"—Quatre's voice scattered these unhappy thoughts—"there on that high hill is where the Abbot died."

            "The Abbot?" she questioned.

            "Yes. I expect you know that Glastonbury was one of the most celebrated ecclesiastical centers in Europe— some three to four hundred years ago."

            "Yes, I have read about it and how Joseph of Arimathea brought the thorns from the crown of the Savior and planted the thorn tree."

            "He also brought the spear which Lungius thrust into Jesus' side—according to the legends." He shook his head. "You would not think that a shrine so famous and an abbey so rich could have been leveled to the ground because Henry VIII chose to divorce Catherine of Aragon.

            "And all because she could not give him a son," Relena murmured.

            "I think it was less that and more Anne Boleyn." He smiled. "But come ... there"—he pointed to the hill— "facing us is the place where the last Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey was hanged. Do you know that if you talk to one or another of the folk who live here, they will speak of his execution as if it happened the day before yesterday?"

            "It must have been a great shock to them, especially as many of them could not have approved of it." Relena shuddered.

            Quatre, glancing at her, suddenly put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face toward him. "Do I see tears?" he asked.

            Relena blushed. "Well, it... it does seem so sad to think of that rich, powerful man being drawn up the hill on a hurdle and hanged in full view of the town."

            "Ah, you, too, are familiar with the story, I see."

            She nodded. "Yes, I have always enjoyed reading history, and I am partial to the early Tudor and Elizabethan periods."

            "Indeed, I find that era particularly interesting, myself. Though I must admit that my admiration was mainly fixed on the daring exploits of Sir Francis Drake. I might mention that you will find many histories in our library—some are very old. My grandfather was a well-known collector of ancient manuscripts."

            "Oh, really?" Relena said excitedly. "I will look forward to reading them."

            "If you can find them." He frowned slightly. "I have always meant to have the library catalogued, but I fear I have neglected it. Dorothy was not much of a reader, save for her books on plants, but I can remember my father reading to us. He had a fine voice. My sister and I used to be enthralled by the way he made history come alive."

            "Oh, that must have been enjoyable. I think my father was also interested in history. At least that is what Mama has told me. She also says that I take after him—with my nose always in a book."

            "You never knew your father?"

            "No, he succumbed to a virulent fever a month before I was born."

            "Oh, that is a pity."

            "It was worse for my sisters. Sylvia, especially. She was his favorite."

            "She remembers him?"

            "Actually she remembers him quite well, even though she had just turned six when he died," Relena explained, wishing devoutly that she had not introduced the danger­ous topic of Sylvia. Quatre was looking extremely interested, and she could not help recalling that moment at the wedding when Sylvia had dropped the bouquet. She shivered.

            "Are you cold, my dear? The wind is a little cool," Quatre said solicitously.

            "No, not in the least," Relena hastened to assure him, glad that the dangerous topic of Sylvia had been abandoned.

            They left the scene of the Abbot's misfortune and wandered to the so-called sacred spring, where miracles of healing were purported to have occurred, and finally they had supper at an old inn called the George and Pilgrim where, said the host, the ghost of a monk occasionally startled travelers there for the night.

            They laughed together over that, and then Relena said, "I do not believe in ghosts, do you?" She was distressed to see his face change and his eyes grow somber. He said slowly, "No, I cannot think there are ghosts—at least I have never encountered one." Meeting her eyes, he continued in a rather bitter tone of voice, "That should please you, my dear. Your home is free from visitants, specters, and the like…the dead sleep peacefully and the living. . . mourn."

            Relena tensed. It would have taken someone far less sensitive than herself not to realize that inadvertently she had opened an old wound. No, it was not so old. His beloved Dorothy had been gone less than three years, and when, she wondered unhappily, would she ever learn tact? Then, and with a trace of indignation, she decided that her remark had not been untactful; it merely had been something anyone would say!

            "I am in total agreement," Lady Orville said the following day after listening to Relena's tearful account of Quatre's moody silence on the way home. "I am going to do as I earlier threatened, my poor child. I am going to give a dinner party. Quatre has not been near us for quite a while, and as he told you, he has been a good friend of Duo—but dear Dorothy's pronounced dislike of me has kept him away." She bent an eye on Relena. "It has not been a week, and yet I see a diminution of your weight. I hope you have not been starving yourself?"

            "I have not been very hungry, that is all," Relena explained.

            "Well, the loss is not unbecoming," Lady Orville observed. "I hope, however, that you will not try to be a sylph."

            "I doubt that I could." Relena laughed.

            "Ah, I am pleased to have made you laugh. Your husband is going to have a piece of my mind, I assure you."

            "Please, no," Relena protested. "It must be so difficult for him—seeing someone else in Dorothy's place."

            "And"—Lady Orville frowned—"it must be so easy for you having to be subjected to his fits and starts."

            Relena looked down. "I do not mind. I want him to be happy."

            "And if this prolonged grieving makes him happy, you will stand meekly by and…oh, dear, what is the use? Neither of you has any connection with reason, but I will put a flea in the ear of my husband, as the saying goes. It is possible that Duo might succeed where others have failed!"

            Since it would have proved futile to argue with Lady Orville, Relena did not make the effort, but as she returned to the stable, she still held the unhappy conviction that despite his determined efforts—and on occasion they had been determined—Quatre would never be comforted for the loss of his wife. She had captured both his imagination and his heart, and by dying so early and so tragically, she would retain them forever!

            On dismounting from her horse, she noticed a pony cart in the stable yard. It was drawn by a milk-white pony with a silky mane. The cart was painted a dark green and gave the impression of being new—from its padded leather seat to the collar, bridle, and reins.

            "Do we have a guest, then?" Relena asked Jim, one of the stable lads.

            He shook his head. "'E be 'ere for the books, 'e said."

            "The books?" Relena questioned, but ceased her interrogation as she saw a blank look in Jim's eyes.

            "The books?" Relena murmured to herself as she entered the house through a side door, wishing as always that she might have some of the shabby furniture taken out and the curtains changed. There was a preponder­ance of green in the house, which, she reminded herself, was less Dorothy's doing than Quatre's mother's, but again she forbore to mention changes lest she win her hus­band's approval but at the same time increase his despondency. He would feel it was her right to request them, just as he would believe it his obligation to provide them. Meanwhile she would be, in effect, trespassing on the territory which Dorothy still claimed. She sighed. It would be easier to say nothing and put up with the green.

            As she came into the main hail Relena met a footman and remembered the pony cart. "Jim told me that we have a visitor, George. Who might he be?"

            "'E's come to catalogue the library, milady," he ex­plained.

            "Oh, really," Relena said excitedly, and hurried up the stairs and into that vast chamber, pausing on the thresh­old as she saw Quatre speaking with a tall young man dressed in the height of fashion. However, as she drew nearer, she realized that despite his natty appearance, his garments bore signs of being mended and even patched at the knees. Still, he bore himself proudly. His hair was fashionably cut and a light auburn in hue, and the glance he turned on her was a dark hazel. On seeing her, he bowed and smiled.

            Quatre, too, smiled. "My dear, this is Mr. Trowa Barton, who will be our new librarian."

            "I will, your lordship?" Mr. Trowa asked in surprised accents, and then smiled faintly. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but I did not realize that you had reached a decision."

            "Oh, but I have," Quatre assured him. "You appear to be extremely knowledgeable, and since my wife and I are great readers, we are anxious to have the mysteries of this library probed. As I have already explained, it has been sadly neglected since my grandfather's day. When will you be able to begin on your labors?"

            "Today," Mr. Barton answered. "Tomorrow, my lord. I must see to lodgings."

            "But you may stay here, of course," Quatre said. "Is that not usual?"

            "It is not entirely unusual, my lord, but I have done so only on a few occasions.

            "We have a great many unoccupied chambers here, and there is no need to stay at an inn or in other accommodations unless you would prefer to do so."

            "Oh, my lord, I would not," Mr. Barton said warmly.

            "I should enjoy being here. As an antiquarian, I am much enamored of the great mansions that one sees in various parts of the country, and this house is a particu­larly felicitous example of its kind."

            "In the name of my ancestors, I thank you." Quatre smiled. "But I give you leave to take your time in settling in. You need not commence your work immediately."

            "Oh, but I should prefer to do so, my lord." Mr. Barton looked around him. "There is so very much here to beguile and enchant a scholar such as myself."

            "Is there not!" Relena exclaimed. "I anticipate that you will find some old books—very old, I mean. Perhaps there will be some incunabula."

            "I should not be surprised, milady." Mr. Barton gazed eagerly at the rather disordered shelves. "I anticipate a veritable trove of treasures."

            "It might take you some time to discover them," Quatre commented.

            "That is part of the excitement." Mr. Barton's emerald eyes shone.

            "I can see you will attack your work with enthusiasm." Quatre smiled. "There is a chance that you will find a grimoire. I hope it will not frighten you."

            "A grimoire?" Relena questioned. "There are books on witchcraft here?"

            "Ah, you are acquainted with the subject?" Quatre asked her.

            "No, not precisely, but I have read about them in Gothic novels."

            "Ah." Quatre laughed. "But of course they would figure largely in those."

            "How old is the grimoire?" Mr. Barton asked interestedly.

            "I am not sure. It was the property of my great­grandmother, and she, I might add, was not a witch. It seems she appropriated it from a maidservant during our annual celebration of St. John's Eve."

            "Ah, you celebrate St. John's Eve here, then?" Mr. Barton asked.

            "Yes, every summer. It is a tradition at the castle. We still call ourselves a castle," Quatre explained. "We set the bonfire in a clearing near the keep. . . ." He turned to Relena. "I do not believe I have told you about that, have I, my dear?"

            "No," she said, "and St. John's Eve is no more than three weeks away."

            "Yes, that is true. However, you'll not need to concern yourself with the preparations. The servants will attend to it. That, too, is a tradition."

            "Will there be dancing around the bonfire?" Relena asked.

            Quatre frowned and then nodded. "Yes, there always is." Relena concealed a sigh and wondered how many times she would unwittingly say something that must bring the late Dorothy forcibly to her husband's mind. She could imagine the graceful nymph of the portrait whirling around the bonfire. Unfortunately she could also see herself and hoped devoutly that she would be allowed to watch from the sidelines.

            "I expect," Mr. Barton said, breaking the small silence that had followed Quatre's comment, "that I had best be going. I will have to settle with the innkeeper. Are you sure that it is convenient for me to come this afternoon, my lord?"

            "I am quite sure, Mr. Barton. We will have a room prepared for you."

            Once Mr. Barton, all smiles and words of gratitude, had gone, Quatre turned to Relena. "Well, my dear, the library will soon be in order. The young man has excellent references, though I believe he is a little down on his luck."

            "I had the same impression myself," Relena said. "I hope that you intend to pay him well."

            "Of course."

            "Oh, I am pleased." She gazed around the immense room. The books were not only not in proper order— some of them were piled on the floor, something she had not wanted to bring to her husband's attention lest he believe that she was, in effect, criticizing the late Dorothy for her neglect of the volumes. She was rather sure that the conservatory had absorbed Dorothy's entire attention. Consequently the fact that Quatre had hired a librarian was very cheering. She had been half afraid that he might want the house to remain a sort of shrine to his late wife.

            "A penny for your thoughts, my dear," Quatre said.

            She looked up quickly. "They are not worth half the sum," she murmured, and was glad that he could not read them.

            "I would dispute that." He put his arm around her. "And where have you been?"

            "I have been riding with Hilde . . . Lady Orville."

            "And what did Lady Orville have to say for herself? Usually it is quite a bit."

            "She is planning a dinner. She wants us to come."

            "Ah, would you like to go, my dear?"

            "Very much," she said. "I do enjoy her company."

            "I am glad that you do. I have not seen Duo—Lord Orville—for quite some time, and we have been friends since childhood."

            "So she gave me to understand. Did you have a falling-out with him?"

            "No, not precisely." He moved away from her and stood at a table flicking through the pages of a large book that was lying on top of it. "I am not criticizing Lady Orville, mind you. I know she is your friend, but Dorothy was never at ease with her. You must have noticed that she has a habit of saying exactly what she thinks, and she is also unsparingly frank. Dorothy did not appreciate this quality."

            "Oh, really? I have noticed that she does believe in speaking her mind, true. But I enjoy knowing what people are thinking."

            "Dorothy was exceptionally sensitive. It is possible that she misunderstood Lady Orville."

            "Perhaps she did. I do find her so very kind."

            "If she has proved kind to you, my dear, I think I must revise my evaluation of her. It is possible that Dorothy did not take the trouble to know her. She never enjoyed going about in society. I am pleased that you do. We will have to give some dinners ourselves. I want you to become acquainted with some of the other families who live nearby. I think that among them you might find other young women who are quite as compatible as Lady Orville."

            "I should enjoy meeting your friends," Relena said carefully. "And I think we should invite people here, do you not agree?"

            He flicked through more pages of the volume on the table. "Yes indeed, it is high time that I ceased to be a hermit." Rather than looking at her, he kept his eyes on the book. "My sister has waxed very stern on the subject. And certainly she is right. You are both right. But now, my dear, if you will excuse me, I think I must inform the housekeeper concerning Mr. Barton's arrival."

            "Of course," Relena agreed. Once Quatre had hurried out of the room, Relena, with a long sigh, sank down on an adjacent chair. Despite his acquiescence to her suggestion, she was, again, uncomfortably positive that she had, in effect, trespassed on forbidden ground. Quatre did not really approve her friendship with Lady Orville because his wife had not liked her. He did not really approve her suggestion that they entertain his friends because Dorothy had not been a sociable person. Did he want her to follow in the lady's uncertain footsteps? She was sure he did not. Despite anything Quatre could, and probably would, say to the contrary, he was not really her husband. He remained Dorothy's widower.


	7. Chapter 6a

Note: I don't own the Gundam characters. Thanks to all who reviewed. This next chapter is especially for you.

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**The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 06a)**

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On their way to Lady Orville's dinner party, Quatre, sitting beside Relena in the post chaise, broke a rather protracted silence by saying, "I am pleased that we are going, my dear."

"Are you?" she asked rather shyly.

"Yes, it is time that you met some of our other neighbors. I expect they have not left cards because of Dorothy's reticence. I am sure they judge me a recluse."

His comment surprised her. In the half a month she had been at his home- or, rather, "their home," as she must call it and try to expunge the feeling that she was an unwanted guest come for an indefinite state- Quatre had made no reference to the lack of formal visits generally paid to a new arrival. Rather than giving him a direct answer, she contented herself with saying, "I expect they thought that since we were so recently wed…" She blushed, realizing that the observation she had been about to make, with its suggestion of a honeymoon, would be the last sort of a remark he would wish to hear.

"Yes, I can well imagine that they expected we would covet our privacy. Relena, my dear, you have been wonderfully forbearing. I…" He hesitated, for the carriage was slowing to a stop. "I forgot that the Orvilles live so near. I should not have forgotten. It will be good to see Duo again."

"I imagine he will be pleased to see you too," Relena said. Quatre was looking very handsome tonight. His evening clothes became him, and she found herself remembering the night they had met. He had looked similarly handsome. He had easily outshone all the gentlemen she had seen on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion, and again it seemed incredible that they should be married-especially after she had stepped on his toe.

He would suffer less were she to do it now, she thought with no little satisfaction. She had lost more weight, and this evening when she had come down to join him, he had commented on the change in her appearance. "You do look exceedingly lovely tonight, Relena, my dear," he had said on a note of surprise, and then he had fallen silent. She had wondered, and was still wondering, if he were comparing her to his lost love-but of course there could be no comparison.

More than ever she was convinced that he and his Dorothy had occupied an enchanted world of their own-one closed to all invasion, a Garden of Eden, or, better yet, a utopia. Then she remembered with a surge of excitement that Mr. Barton had discovered an early edition of a Sir Thomas More work-dated 1530! She remembered the librarian, his eyes alight with excitement, as he had carefully shown her the thin, leatherbound volume. He had said wonderingly, "Just think, it was printed before Shakespeare was born, and he might easily have drawn upon it for The Tempest." It was very pleasant to have Mr. Barton in the house. He had made other discoveries in the library, and he was always eager to share them with her.

"My dear, whither are you wandering?" Quatre said.

Relena looked up quickly and did not see him. "Where are…?" she began confusedly.

"I am here, my dear, waiting to hand you down."

She realized then that the coach door had been opened, and rather than sitting beside her, Quatre was standing by the steps waiting to hand her down. "Oh, dear, I was thinking," she told him.

"A most regrettable habit, and one that you must endeavor to conquer if you are to be like most females," he said lightly as he helped her out of the post chaise. "However, I might add that I, for one, find it singularly refreshing. In fact, your singularity in that regard was one of the reasons I married you. It is not every young woman who beguiles her time at Almack's with a book."

She looked up into his smiling face and felt a delicious warmth stealing over her. She had never seen so... dared she call his look ardent? She spoke over a pound­ing in her throat. "I have never tried to be like most females, Quatre."

"I know," he said softly, "and that is what I most appreciate about you. Indeed, it occurs to me that I have never appreciated you enough. I have to believe that Lady Orville has proved far more discerning than myself."

Before Relena could reply, several other ladies and gentlemen moving in the direction of the castle had caught sight of Quatre. There were delighted greetings and swift introductions, which Relena, meeting interested, curious, and pleased glances, feared she might not re­member. Then they came into a large ball to be punctiliously announced by an elderly butler. Further introductions followed. Relena met a Lady Cavendish, a Lord Calvert, a Lieutenant Colonel Dashwood, Mr. and Mrs. James Lord, and Colonel Wiltshire with his lady, and hoped that she would have no difficulty in remembering them all.

Then suddenly Quatre was separated from her by a tall, bronzed gentleman with a soldierly bearing, who later proved to be her host, Lord Duo Orville. He told her that his lady was much taken with her but did not wait to hear her comment that she was fond of Lady Orville.

Indeed, there was a considerable amount of fractured conversation, of anecdotes told and interrupted by others who had been there at the time the said anecdote was in the process of unfolding. There was also a moment when her hostess determinedly dragged her into an alcove and said archly, "You are in such good looks tonight, my dear Relena. Am I to deduce… ?" She did not appear to be disappointed by Relena's embarrassed denials.

"The man is beginning to realize his errors, it is evident," she whispered. "And it is also time that Dorothy was drowned in a deep pool. She will be, after tonight. Duo will have something to say about you. I have demanded that, and now that he has seen you, he is really quite annoyed with Quatre-or I should be even more annoyed than he has been. I think he loathed Dorothy even more than myself. Husbands should be partial to their wives and allied against their enemies, my dear. Until the ghost is laid, Dorothy will be your enemy, but I feel that Quatre is finally seeing the error of his ways."

"He has seemed different tonight," Relena murmured.

"And high time! He often watches you, you know. In fact, he is beginning to behave as a newly married man ought." Lady Orville winked. "I will hope that this behavior will be followed by other manly manifestations."

Relena blushed. "Hilde!" she protested.

"I know I am being outrageous, but also he is outrageous, and not so harmlessly, either. Sixteen days- shocking, I call it!"

Relena stared at her in horror. "I… I never told you that…that…"

"My love, that is part of it. Your reticence does you great credit, but it is also revealing to me, I who count myself your best friend. The man is a fool! I only hope that he will not come to appreciate you too late."

"Too late?" Relena repeated, staring at Lady Orville incredulously.

"Oh, Relena, Relena, Relena, I could shake you," Lady Orville hissed. "At a word, you would lie down and let him walk on you, and it should be the other way around. There, I will say no more, because you will not understand and you will be unhappy, and I have invited you here so that our neighbors and friends can see what an excellent choice your husband has made. I also hope that Quatre, who has been looking your way while we have been conversing- or, rather, while I have been conversing- will see the error of his ways and cease these sins of omission."

Having had her say, Lady Orville left Relena's side, and her position was usurped by other ladies. Everyone appeared to like her, and as the evening ended, she felt happy and excited. Despite her lingering shyness, she had enjoyed herself, and Quatre appeared in high good humor as he handed her into the post chaise.

"My dear," he said, pulling her against him, "You have made an excellent impression."

"Did I?" Relena asked, thinking only of the warmth of his arm on her shoulders, and the warmth of his tone as well.

"You seem to have had no trouble conversing with anyone. Duo remarked on it. It was good seeing him again."

"I should imagine you would have, since your estates adjoin each other. I hope that you had a chance to speak with Lady Orville."

"I did, and I found her charming."

"Oh, I am pleased. You do like her, then?"

"I think I like her mainly because she seems to like you, and consequently shows excellent taste." Quatre bent to kiss her. The kiss might have begun by being casual, but it lasted a surprisingly long time. "Relena, my dearest Relena," he said finally, "what a damned fool I have been!''

"Oh, n-no-" she began.

"Oh, yes," he interrupted. "And I do hope that you will forgive…" He paused, for the post chaise had traversed the relatively short distance that lay between the two estates and was rolling into the stable yard. Though it was dark, there was a full moon that night, and standing in a bright pool of moonlight was a wraithlike figure clad in white and wringing its hands.

As Quatre, usurping the place of his footman, wonderingly helped Relena from the coach, the figure ran toward them, wailing, "Oh, where have you been? You must help me, Relena, I have left my husband and I…I do not know what to do." However, it was not to Relena that Sylvia turned. She flung herself into her brother-in-law's arms and sobbed against him as if her heart would break.

Quatre stared down at Sylvia incredulously. Even in her agony, her moon-illuminated features bore a startling resemblance to Dorothy. Automatically his arms tight­ened around her quivering body. He said gently, protec­tively, "My poor child, what is amiss?"

"I…I…" Sylvia looked up at him piteously, and then, upon receiving the support of his arms, her last bit of strength appeared to ebb and she swooned.

"I must get her inside," he said unnecessarily.

"Yes," Relena agreed faintly, thinking… but she did not know what to think, could not think at such a time. Sylvia must be brought into the house, and Quatre had easily lifted her and was carrying her inside. At this hour the servants had retired, save for her abigail, Quatre's valet, and the footman who had admitted them.

Fortunately Catherine could make the bed in one of the many spare rooms, but Quatre, still encumbered by his fair burden, directed that Sylvia be put in the chamber his sister had once occupied, it being more commodious and better furnished than the others. Furthermore, it was close to the suite that he and Relena occupied.

Relena, trailing behind him, watched as he brought Sylvia into the chamber, his voice edgy as he directed Catherine to hurry. Then he carefully put Sylvia on the chaise lounge and in the glow of a hastily lighted candelabra he scanned her unconscious face.

"She is so very pale," he said anxiously.

Sylvia was always pale. She had very little color in her cheeks. Relena longed to provide that information but could not. Shock and fear had put a bridle on her tongue, and there was agony as well. In a moment that seemingly had held great promise, when her husband had seemed more interested, more caring-if not actually loving- her sister Sylvia, like a bird of ill omen, had come to dispel her happiness again-and now what would happen?

Conjecture was beyond her. She could not consider the ramifications attendant upon Sylvia's arrival. She must minister to her stricken sister, or else be thought uncar­ing and even inhuman. She came to stand near Quatre at the chaise lounge.

"Should we not apply burned feathers?" she suggested. "Beggin' your pardon, milady," Catherine said crisply as she slid pillows into their cases, "but my sister's much given to faintin' fits, and water splashed in 'er face brings 'er about quick as that."

"Water, then?" Relena suggested.

"Yes," Quatre agreed. "Catherine, will you fetch some... He paused as Sylvia stirred and moaned. "Never mind," he added quickly. "I believe she is . . . recovering."

Sylvia opened her eyes, and staring fearfully into Quatre's anxious face, she wailed, "Oh, p-please, he…he must not find me."

"My poor, poor child, what has happened?" he asked solicitously and tenderly and in a tone Relena had never heard from him before.

"Oh, Q-Quatre, it is you," Sylvia said wonderingly. "But-but how did I…I get here? I…I am so confused!

"I brought you, my dear. You are in my sister's chamber, and you are quite safe with us," Quatre assured her gently.

"Am I?" Sylvia shuddered. "Am I safe anywhere as long as he remains in the world? Oh, God, God, God, I have lived in such stultifying terror that I scarcely know the meaning of the word safe. Am…am I really safe? If he should come searching for me…" Sylvia shuddered again.

"If he should come here, my dear, he will have me to deal with," Quatre said soothingly. "I assure you, you will have nothing to fear from him in this house. You are with me."

_ Us.__ He should have said us_, something in Relena's half-benumbed mind informed her, but he had not. She was seized by a most frightening sensation. She felt as if the room had suddenly narrowed to exclude her, leaving only the two of them, Quatre and Sylvia, staring into each other's eyes. Were she to leave, she was positive that Quatre would not even notice her departure, for it was not Sylvia's face that was looking back at him from the pillows- it was that of Dorothy, to whom she bore so fatal a resemblance. Acting on that same conviction, Relena moved out of the room and went down the hail to her own chamber. Out of habit she looked about for Catherine and belatedly remembered that the abigail was making Sylvia's bed. Usually she would have undressed, but this gown was complicated, and she must needs wait, as she had often waited in the days when she and Sylvia had shared an abigail.

Later, when a taciturn Catherine had helped her mistress undress, bade her good night, and gone up to her room on the third floor, Relena, lying in her wide bed, remembered Quatre's words and the warmth of his arms around her on the way home- as well as the promise she had believed they held. She wondered if after leaving Sylvia he might come to her chamber, if only to bid her good night, but she was almost positive that he would not.

By the time the clock struck one in the morning, Relena, being truly positive that Quatre would not come, ceased to contend against a determined Morpheus and fell asleep.

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**End Notes**: Terribly sorry it's so short but I promise the next one will be longer. Review please.


	8. Chapter 6b

**Disclaimer**: I do not own GW/AC.

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**The Lighting Of The Fires** (Chapter 06b)

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Informed that Lady Orville had arrived and was now awaiting her hostess in the drawing room, Relena, in the library, discussing a rare edition of Percy's Reliques dated 1765 with Mr. Barton, flushed and wished she dared say that she was not at home. Unfortunately she could not issue such a rebuff to dear Hilde, even though in the last week she had declared herself not at home to those visitors who, having met her on the night of Lady Orville's dinner, had sent cards.

She had also declined an invitation from one Lady Kirwan, whom she vaguely remembered as having sat next to her at the dinner. Lady Kirwan had invited Lord and Lady Winner to attend a gathering in her gardens, which, Relena had heard, were famous. She had not even communicated Lady Kirwan's wishes to Quatre, for she knew full well that he would not have wanted to attend.

Upon Sylvia's recovery from her husband's brutal assault, evident in the angry discoloration of her upper arm and in the swelling of one delicate wrist which her enraged spouse had twisted, nearly breaking the bone, Quatre had assigned himself the task of being Sylvia's unofficial physician and official comforter. He had spent a great deal of time in her chamber, reading to her and otherwise soothing her lacerated feelings.

On the third day after her arrival, Sylvia had pronounced herself well enough to rise from her bed. Quatre had obligingly carried her down to the conservatory. Sylvia had pronounced the rare plants much to her liking, and indeed had contrived to amaze Relena by telling him that she, too, had a passion for gardening and was particularly fond of the rare blooms that the late Lady Dorothy had collected.

However, when Relena had attempted to find out what her brother-in-law had done to send Sylvia flying from the house, she had waxed hysterical again, and an angered Quatre had scolded Relena for needlessly distressing her frail sister. He had sought to alleviate the damage her thoughtlessness had engendered by taking the invalid for a long drive in his curricle. Then, on the following day, when Sylvia had told him that she was feeling much more the thing, he had taken her to Glastonbury. The visit had lasted all of the day, after which Sylvia had pronounced herself too weary to undertake the journey back to the castle. A footman had been dispatched to Relena, explaining the circumstances and assuring her that her husband and her sister would be returning the following afternoon.

As it happened, they had not returned on that designated afternoon. They had returned mid-morning of the next day, blaming a broken wheel on the coach, which had necessitated a return to Glastonbury. Sylvia had been full of apologies and praise. The praise had been divided equally between the kindness of her dear, considerate brother-in-law and the charm of the town. In common with herself and Quatre, they had gone to the George and Pilgrim, whence they returned to stay the night. Sylvia had woken her brother-in-law in the middle of the night with the quavering announcement that she had seen the ghostly monk. He had spent the rest of the night sitting on a chair in her chamber, lest the specter return again, Sylvia had told Relena in tones of awe and gratitude, her eyes wide with surprise because she had never known a gentleman to be so very considerate. She further complimented Relena, saying that she had made the best marriage in the family!

On this day Sylvia and Quatre were bound for Bridgewater Bay, Sylvia having expressed a hankering to view the sea. Relena grimaced. Quatre had seemed embarrassed and even reluctant to accede to his sister-in-law's request. The time was approaching for the festivities attendant upon the Eve of St. John, and in an expansive moment he had invited Lord and Lady Orville to attend and had also asked several other persons present at that never-to-be-forgotten dinner.

Relena had dutifully written the invitations. She had also overseen preparations which, in ordinary circumstances, must have been allocated to her husband. However, a gently persuasive and wistful Sylvia had prevailed, as she always must. They had left early in the morning.

Consequently Relena, with the events of the last week whirling through her mind, said reluctantly to the waiting servant, "You may inform her ladyship that I will be there directly." She bestowed a warm smile on Mr. Barton. "I do thank you for bringing this volume to my attention. I do love old ballads."

"As I do myself, my lady," he said.

A few minutes later Relena came into the drawing room but did not find her ladyship. Then Tim, one of the footmen, came to inform her that her ladyship was in the garden by the fish pond.

As she arrived at the pool Relena found her friend staring into its dark green waters on which floated lily pads and other aquatic plants. On exchanging greetings and an embrace with Relena, Lady Orville said, "I expect there are carp in this pond, but they are proving to be as elusive as you, my dear. Do you suppose that they, in common with yourself, are beset by a visiting sister?"

Relena blushed. "I am sorry that we have not met recently, but these last few days have been extremely hectic."

"Yes, I understand that your sister recovered rather quickly from whatever ailed her at the time of her arrival, and that she has been much in the company of her brother-in-law, who is endeavoring to ease the dis­tress she has endured at the hands of an Othello-like spouse-by showing her some of the felicitous spots around the countryside. They are currently in Bridgewater, I hear."

Relena gaped at her. "How…" she began faintly.

"My dear love, the servants, of course," Lady Orville explained. "They know everything- as I think I told you some time ago. I believe that they engage in those marathons so popular in ancient Greece, save that instead of passing on a torch, they substitute information."

Relena said, "Sylvia was very badly treated by her husband, and Quatre was much exercised over the matter. He has felt it incumbent upon himself to be kind to her."

"Hmm..." Lady Orville grimaced. "Evidently he has not yet learned that it is quite useless to be kind to crocodiles. Ply them with meat from a distance. If you get too close to them, they would as likely take your hand with the meat. I am quite annoyed with you, Relena. Why have you not sent Sylvia on to your mother? That is the usual destination for a battered bride."

"I did suggest that she go to Mother, but Quatre was quite indignant and asked me if I could not see that she was in no condition to travel."

"How did she get from Cornwall to Somerset? On the back of an eagle, perchance? Or perhaps she hired a balloon."

"She came by post-chaise. She was ill on the way."

"However," Lady Orville responded caustically, "the air of Somerset being more healthful than the sea winds that drift over Land's End, she recovered her health, thus giving the lie to those who tout the curable quotient in a sea breeze. Are you so utterly naive, Relena, or have you, like the turtle learned to draw your head into your shell and remain oblivious to danger, if not actually protected against it? I understand that a turtle is quite helpless if turned on its back. If you do not watch yourself, my dear, that will be your charming sister's next move."

Relena said unhappily, "She does resemble Dorothy. I expect that must be extremely unsettling to Quatre."

"Something of which I am sure your sister is completely aware. Oh!" Lady Orville stamped her foot and glared at Relena. "I could shake you, my dear. Are you going to stand idly by while that little witch…oh, my poor child," she said in a softer tone as, coming to Relena's chair, she bent down and put her arms around her. "I do wish you were not so vulnerable, so much in awe of your wretched sister, who thrives on making you miserable because of her own selfish needs."

"Her needs?" Relena repeated confusedly.

"Do you not see?" Lady Orville cried angrily. "Without even knowing her I can guess what she is like. She feeds on admiration, adulation, and adoration. If she cannot find them at home, she will seek them elsewhere, and most determinedly. They are the fuel that lights her fires. She could not exist without them, and since she can give so very little in return, she must constantly seek for new sources. I have a strong feeling that she does not wear well, my dear Relena. Her husband was cruel to her? Probably he finally probed her depths and found no more than an inch of water in the pond. Consequently she must seek for others who do not realize that beneath that beautiful reflection on the surface of that same pond, there are only weeds beneath."

Almost against her will, Relena laughed. She sobered quickly enough. "I do not believe that Quatre would agree with you."

"Damn all women who die too young," Lady Orville said in exasperated tones. Then, with her habitual abruptness, she added, "How is the librarian progressing?"

"Mr. Barton is most knowledgeable. He has found some real treasures," Relena said enthusiastically, glad to be diverted from the unhappy topic of her infatuated husband and her beguiling sister.

Fortunately for her further peace of mind, Lady Orville, after listening patiently to the number of marvels Mr. Barton had exhumed from the library archives, took her leave. Her parting words were, "Since you are disposed to do nothing about Sylvia, I will pray for a deus ex machina- possibly Zeus to come in his flaming chariot to rid you of her just when matters appear to be at the very worst."

"I will pray too," Relena heard herself reply, much to her subsequent embarrassment. "I mean…" she began hastily.

"If you do not mean exactly what I hope you mean, you are no friend of mine," Lady Orville replied with her usual candor. "I will see you the day after tomorrow, and at what time will you be lighting the fires?"

"You may come at any time, but the fires will be lighted after sundown."

"Let us pray that they will do as they are supposed to do, which is to avert disaster and bring luck. You need both, my dearest Relena."

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"The midsummer fires are a pagan survival," Mr. Barton remarked, as in company with Relena, Sylvia, and the Orvilles, they strolled down the hill in the direction of the keep where a huge pile of kindling wood, gathered by the gardeners on the previous day, stood ready to be ignited.

"A pagan survival, really?" Sylvia asked. She laughed lightly. "That would be dating from the time when the early Britons painted themselves blue, I expect. I am glad that custom did not survive. What an odd idea, to be sure!"

"I would think it no more odd than some of the exaggerated garments that are worn today by the dandies." Mr. Barton smiled.

"Oh, indeed?" Sylvia gave him a chilly stare. "Are you setting yourself up to be an arbiter of fashion, then, Mr. Barton?" She let her eyes rest on his shabby garments.

"Sylvia!" Relena protested. "Mr. Barton was doing nothing of the kind, and some of the garments that are affected by gentlemen are ridiculous. What about that odd creature- I do not remember his name- who chooses to wear nothing but green and eats only green food?"

"And what about neck cloths that keep the chin tilted at an unnatural angle, preventing the wearer from looking down? I have heard it said that many a dandy has sustained a serious fall, and deserved it too." Lord Orville appeared to shudder. "I am of the opinion that garments must be comfortable first and stylish second."

"Precisely, my love," his lady agreed. "It is the way I wish to live my entire life."

"And have," her husband said impishly. Putting his arm around her waist, he gave her a loving little squeeze.

Sylvia visited a chilly glance on Lord and Lady Orville. Then, turning to Relena, she said, "When will Quatre be lighting the fire? It is getting quite dark."

"I expect he is waiting until we arrive," Relena said, thinking that he was probably waiting until Sylvia arrived. "Gracious!" she exclaimed as they approached the keep. "I did not think they would make three piles of wood... and they are so high."

"Three is a mystical number," Mr. Barton observed.

"Yes." Lord Orville nodded. "And generally the piles are as high as those and even higher."

"There is quite a little wind tonight," Relena said worriedly. "Do you think it safe?"

"The keep will act as a windbreak," Lord Orville said soothingly.

"It is like you to fret over nothing, Relena." Sylvia laughed. Before her sister could answer, she added, "It bids fair to be a lovely evening." She held up her arms. "Night's candles are all aglow, some poet has said."

"He has said," Lady Orville corrected, "'Night's candles are all burnt out and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops.' He has also said, 'Oh, grim-locked night, oh, night with hue so black, oh, night which ever are when day is not, oh, night, oh, night, alack, alack, alack.'"

"Hilde…" Her husband groaned.

He received a mischievous smile as Lady Orville said, "I am following Lady Yuy's lead and quoting the bard, do you not like it? I have always been particularly partial to 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', and certainly it is an apt quotation for this particular midsummer's night," she responded challengingly.

All she received by way of response from her lord was a raised eyebrow, and subsequently a glare from Sylvia, who moved swiftly ahead of them.

A few minutes later the small group of people, with Sylvia still in the lead, reached the keep, its time and war-scored lineaments softened in the glow from a three-quarter moon over which pale clouds drifted. In the west, a faint and fading line of red still remained.

"Oh, how beautiful," Relena said softly. "Ah, there are the servants," she added as a babble of conversation reached them.

"My dear Relena, why are they here?" Sylvia asked disapprovingly.

"Because Quatre gave them leave to watch the lighting of the bonfires. It is a tradition here," Relena explained. "Did he not tell you?"

"We did not discuss the event, Relena, dear," Sylvia murmured, her meaning all too clear. She added quickly, "Where is Quatre?"

"He is probably having his torch lighted so that he might ignite the fires," Lady Orville explained, indicating the three piles of timber.

"He will ignite the middle one first, I understand." Relena frowned. "I hope the blaze will not frighten his horse."

"Dear Relena, always borrowing trouble," Sylvia said with a little laugh

"It does not usually catch on so quickly," Lord Orville assured Relena.

"Ah, look," Sylvia cried a few minutes later, "the sunlight has faded completely! It should be time and here he comes! Does he not sit that great black horse like Lancelot himself'?"

"Yes, very like Lancelot, himself," Lady Orville said so dryly that even though she was not in the mood for laughter, Relena could not restrain a giggle.

In that moment Quatre rode forward to fling his torch upon the middle pile, and of a sudden there was a puff of wind and a burst of flame which seemed to envelop horse and rider. With a neigh that bordered on a shriek, the stallion reared, unseating its rider and dashing away- the while Quatre, thrown heavily to the ground, lay very still.

Sylvia screamed and started toward him, but it was Relena who reached him first, kneeling beside him and easing his head onto her lap.

There were great cries and a babble of comment from the assembled observers, and then Lord Orville, reaching Relena's side, said urgently, "We must get him home." He looked about him, and seeing a servant, he yelled, "Bring a plank…a door, if you can find one."

As the man nodded and dashed away, Sylvia, standing just beyond Relena, began to cry. "Is…is he dead? Oh, God, he cannot be dead!"

The librarian, who, all but unnoticed by Sylvia and Relena, had come to Quatre's side, now knelt beside him.

"He is not dead. He is breathing, but," he frowned, "I think a doctor must be summoned immediately."

"Can a doctor help him?" Sylvia wailed. "He lies so still."

"I beg you will stop shrieking and make an effort to contain yourself," Lady Orville said icily. "We…-none of us know anything, and will not until the doctor arrives."

"His face…" Sylvia shuddered. "It is so red. He must have been burned."

"I believe that be was singed by the flames." Lord Orville frowned. "And it is possible, judging from the angle of his leg, that he has broken a bone. His ankle is also swelling."

"Oh, God." Sylvia wrung her hands. She moved to Relena's side. "I must be with him. He will want me."

"On the contrary, Lady Yuy," Lady Orville snapped. "I am sure that were he conscious, he would prefer the less hysterical ministrations of his wife."

Sylvia whirled on her and seemed on the point of delivering a sharp retort, but meeting Lady Orville's cool stare, she appeared to think better of it and instead came to stand near her kneeling sister. "How…how is he?" she said, quavering.

Relena shook her head. "He… he is still unconscious." She looked anxiously about her. "I do wish they would hurry with that plank. We must get him to his chamber."

"Yes, yes, of course," Sylvia agreed. "He cannot lie out here. Oh, dear, why did this have to happen?"

"I would imagine," said a chilly voice behind her, "that he rode too close to the flames, and fire is inimical to both men and moths."

Sylvia whirled on the speaker, who of course was Lady Orville. "I find your wit sadly misplaced at such a time."

"Indeed? And what has caused you to imagine that I was being witty?" Lady Orville retorted. "I had the impression that I was saying no more than the truth."

Sylvia was prevented from uttering the sharp rejoinder that trembled on her tongue by the two men from the castle, who came carrying an old door, which they set beside the fallen man. Under Relena's directions they gently eased him onto it, and in a few minutes they started back to the castle, followed by Relena, Lord and Lady Orville, Mr. Barton, and an increasingly distracted Sylvia.

By the time Quatre had been brought into his chamber and put to bed by his concerned and nervous valet, the doctor arrived, and after requesting more light, he curtly ordered everyone out of the room.

As Relena, Sylvia, and Lord and Lady Orville moved into the adjacent sitting room, Relena sank down in a chair, and the Orvilles sat on a nearby sofa. Sylvia, pacing back and forth across the room, looked at them in angry amazement. "How can you be so c-calm?" she cried, her accusing glance falling on Relena's face. "He…he has been badly hurt, I am sure of it."

"I am not sure of it," Lady Orville responded coldly. "I will reserve my fears until the doctor gives us his opinion."

"But surely you…, you saw-," Sylvia began.

"Sylvia," Relena interrupted softly. "It is useless to conjecture. We must wait until Mr. Chatterton finishes his examination."

"If...if it were my husband, I would not leave his side, not for an instant!" Sylvia cried.

"But your husband is in Cornwall, is he not?" Lady Orville inquired.

"Just what are you implying?" Sylvia demanded angrily. "I was not implying anything," Lady Orville responded serenely. "I was merely stating what your sister led me to believe was the truth."

"My love…" Lord Orville muttered warningly.

"My…my husband was uncommonly cruel to me," Sylvia said in a quavering voice. "It…it was for my own safety that I fled. Relena knows and understands my plight."

"I am sure she does," Lady Orville said sweetly.

"Hilde!" her husband hissed.

"If you imagine…" Sylvia began, and paused as the door to Quatre's chamber was opened by Mr. Chatterton, a tall, portly man who said in a low voice, "Lady Winner, would you please come in?"

"Is he awake, then?" Sylvia cried as Relena, rising swiftly, hurried toward the door to the inner room.

"No." The doctor shook his head. "I have given him a dose of laudanum. It will quell his pain, at least for a little while."

"Is he in much pain?" Sylvia demanded hysterically as she started to follow Relena.

"His eyes..." the doctor began.

"Oh, God, you will not tell me that he… he has been blinded!" Sylvia shrieked.

"Will you have the goodness to be quiet?" Lady Orville rose and confronted Sylvia, standing between her and the door.

"How dare you?" Sylvia cried as Relena went inside, followed by the doctor, who swiftly closed the door behind him.

"It is Relena's place to be with her husband, and none other," Lady Orville said pointedly. "She is his wife."

"But he…but we…" Sylvia blurted.

"Yes, I know." Lady Orville nodded. "But not at this time. I suggest that you return to your seat and, better yet, to Cornwall, Lady Yuy."

"Hilde!" Lord Orville groaned.

"My dear Duo," his wife said coldly, "I hardly think that at this time poor Relena is in need of houseguests."

Sylvia glared at her. "I must say that you take a great deal on yourself, Lady Orville."

"I am your sister's friend," the latter responded pointedly.

"I…you. . ." Sylvia glared at her and left the room. "Ah." Lady Orville favored her husband with a triumphant smile. "Let us hope that she will soon go home."

"Yes, do let us hope that she will, my dear, but all the same, you do walk in where angels fear to tread." Lord Orville gave her a half-censorious, half-admiring look.

"I am no angel." Lady Orville permitted herself a small smile, which faded immediately. "That wretched young woman! I wish it had been her on the horse, and I wish he had tossed her into the flames!"

"My dear," her husband protested. "Evil intentions…"

"'Evil intentions return to plague the inventor.' Shakespeare again, and those lines do not apply to me. If anyone were ever evil-intentioned, it is that creature. I used to be sorry that I did not have sisters. I am not sorry anymore."

"The mills of the gods grind slowly..." Lord Orville began.

"Too damned slowly," Lady Orville snapped, and was silent, staring anxiously at the door. "It is time that Sylvia paid the piper. I am sure it was she who egged poor Quatre on to lighting that bonfire on horseback."

"Now, Hilde, my love, you know full well that is a tradition here."

"If it is, it should be 'more honored in the breach than in the observance.'"

"I am quite in agreement, my dear. I only hope…"

"Yes," Lady Orville said grimly. "So do I."

A short time later Relena came out, followed by the doctor, who was finishing some directives. "The compresses must be applied three times a day- good, hot water. I have set his leg, and I would not worry too much about his ankle. It is not broken, it is only a bad sprain."

"Will he take long to recover, Mr. Chatterton?" Relena asked anxiously.

"I cannot predict that, milady, but he is young and healthy. And fortunately the bone did not shatter. He suffered a clean break of the tibia. I have bound it, and I would think that in two or three months he will be quite himself again. His ankle, of course, should heal more quickly. You must see that it, too, is soaked in warm water three times a day and kept tightly bandaged."

''His…his eyes…'' Relena began in a voice that was not quite steady.

"You need follow my directives and apply the cornpresses. Keep him in a darkened room. I would think that in a matter of four to five weeks they will have healed. Again, he is young and healthy and not given to overindulgence either at table or the bottle. He will, of course, require careful nursing." The doctor grimaced. "In view of what is available here in the way of nursing…"

"I will see that he is well tended, sir," Relena assured him.

"I am sure you will, milady." Mr. Chatterton gave her an admiring look. "I must congratulate you on your admirable good sense in not revealing your anxiety while in the presence of the patient."

"I did not wish to alarm him," Relena said.

"You are quite right. He must be kept as calm as possible."

"I will see that he is, Mr. Chatterton." Relena said.

"Then I will bid you good evening, milady."

"Good evening, sir, and I am grateful that you came as quickly as you did."

"I would always come in haste, milady. Your husband and his family have been my patients for a number of years. And I beg you will not worry-as long as my directions are followed, he will mend easily. He needs only to be kept quiet and reassured as to his eventual recovery,"

"He shall be," Relena assured him.

"I pray that you will take the doctor's directives to heart, dearest Relena," Lady Orville said shortly after the doctor had gone. "I take it that Quatre is awake."

"Yes," Relena said. "I will have to return to him soon. He is naturally anxious and in some pain. The doctor has administered laudanum, but it has not yet taken effect."

"Yes, certainly you must go back to him. We only lingered to hear what Mr. Chatterton would say. We will go immediately," Lady Orville assured her.

"I… I do thank you, Hilde. You have been kind." Relena murmured.

"My dear, you need not thank us. We are friends, friends of yourself and poor Quatre. And though it is quite useless to offer you advice, I would suggest that you do not spend all the night and all the day at your husband's side. Let others minister to him as well."

Relena nodded. "Yes," she said, wishing that her friend would leave.

"See us to the door, my dear," Lady Orville smiled, "and we will do your bidding."

Relena regarded her confusedly, "My bidding? I do not understand you."

Lord Orville laughed. "My wife believes that you wish her to go- and quickly, as do I."

"Oh, no, b-but…"

"But I would wish the same were anything to happen to dear Duo, I can assure you," Lady Orville assured her warmly. "I will expect you to keep us informed as to his condition, my dear."

"Oh, I will," Relena nodded. "Where is Sylvia? Quatre has been calling for her."

"I imagine that she is in her chamber," Lady Orville said coolly. "She seemed on the edge of the vapors, and I did not believe that she should treat either you or your husband to such a display at this time. I fear that I told her as much."

"Oh, I am glad that you did!" Relena exclaimed. "Sylvia is prone to the vapors."

"I also suggested that she return to Cornwall," Lady Orville said. "I hope you will do the same. Or, if not that, to your mother's house. Either would be a logical destination."

Relena regarded her unhappily. "In Quatre's present condition it might be better were she to remain. Mr. Chatterton said that he should be kept as calm as possible."

"And you believe that Sylvia would have a calming effect on him?" Lady Orville demanded caustically.

"My dear. . ." Lord Orville began.

Relena said doggedly, "He appears to like her. I think he would be disappointed were she to leave."

"And I think you ought to change your name to Patient Griselda!" Lady Orville snapped.

"My dear. . ." Lord Orville protested.

Tears stood in Relena's eyes and were determinedly blinked away. "I am not a Griselda," she said with an actual stamp of her foot. "it is that the doctor said he must not be disturbed, and I happen to believe that Sylvia's abrupt departure would prove very disturbing to him. She will probably not remain here very long. Indeed, she will undoubtedly leave of her own accord within the week."

"That seems logical," Lady Orville said dryly. "She…but no matter, you know my opinion regarding your sister, my dear."

"I am sure she does," Lord Orville said wryly. "You have certainly made no secret of it, my love."

"Were it to be as silent as the tomb, Sylvia's own actions would furnish the corroboration I require. But enough. We will leave you. I will speak to you in a day or two regarding Quatre's condition, though judging from what Mr. Chatterton has said, he is in little danger."

"I do thank you," Relena said. "I will see you to the door."

"No, see us only to the top of the stairs," Lady Orville replied. "We will have no trouble finding our way out."

Having done as Lady Orville asked, Relena hurried back in the direction of Quatre's chamber, coming to a dead stop in the hallway as Sylvia emerged from the door in question. She was looking less concerned than angry.

"He is asleep," she said accusingly. "I could not rouse him, though I called his name quite loudly."

Relena quelled a rising anger only with difficulty. She said coolly, "Why would you want to wake him, Sylvia? It is better that he sleep. That is what the doctor told me."

"I am sure that he would have wanted to bid me farewell," Sylvia said crossly. "I will be leaving first thing in the morning. I have asked the stable boys to see that my post chaise is in good order. I am going to London to stay with Lady Grosvenor. We were best friends at school, and she has been wanting me to visit her for an age."

Caught between concern and relief, Relena said, "But will you not wait to speak to Quatre? I am sure he would want to wish you farewell."

"I think not," Sylvia said coldly. "And you need not resort to any further subterfuges. I am quite aware that it was you who asked Lady Orville to speak to me in that horrid way. If you wished me to go, you had only to tell me so-straight out. If there is anything I cannot abide, it is deceit."

"But I assure you, Sylvia. I said nothing to Lady Orville," Relena began earnestly.

Sylvia drew herself up. "Please, I pray you will not resort to further prevarication. I am quite aware that you deeply resented the friendship between your unfortunate husband and myself. And since above all things I wish to avoid any further unpleasantness of the nature I suffered before I was forced to flee my home, I will leave him to your tender mercies, Relena."

"I expect that you mean, Sylvia, that you do not find my husband quite as fascinating now that he is ill and unable to squire you about," Relena said coolly.

Sylvia glared at her. "On the contrary, Relena, dear. if there is anything that I abominate, it is envy and jealousy, and you have been demonstrating both in ever-increasing proportions. Furthermore…but I have already expressed myself on this regrettable situation, and I trust I need say nothing more."

"You are quite right, Sylvia, you need say nothing more," Relena responded equably. "And now, if you will excuse me, I think I must go to my husband."

"I do wish you joy of him," Sylvia said spitefully.

"I have had great joy from him," Relena could not help responding.

"Really?" Sylvia drawled. "That is not the impression I received from him. But you were always rather obtuse, were you not, Relena? Mama has often told me that she wondered at your lack of sensitivity." Turning her back on her, Sylvia walked away.

----------

Of course she had invited such a response, Relena reasoned, but had Quatre really confided his unhappiness with a marriage to which he had agreed mainly because of his need for an heir-to her sister? That did not seem likely, but how could she be sure? She thought unhappily. Quatre had certainly spent a great deal of time with Sylvia, and undoubtedly those hours had not passed in silence.

She did not acquit her sister of complaining loudly and lengthily about her unhappy marriage to a sympathetic Quatre. Had he responded with a spate of similar complaints in regards to his own? It was not beyond the realm of possibility- especially given Sylvia's uncanny resemblance to his late, beloved Dorothy, especially now that the sun had lightened her hair. Possessing those attributes plus her own beauty, Sylvia was certainly a formidable rival, but, Relena thought with a surge of happiness, she was leaving.

A few minutes later, coming into Quatre's chamber, Relena tiptoed to his side and started to sit down, but unfortunately she passed too close to the table and something crashed to the floor.

"W-who is it? Who is there?" Quatre questioned in a trembling voice as he tried to sit up.

"It is only I, my love," Relena said softly. She put a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. "Do lie back, my dearest. Mr. Chatterton has said that you must lie very still."

"Oh, Sylvia, my dear," Quatre said happily, "I was wondering if you would come."

Relena stepped back from the bed. Her heart was pounding in her throat again. It was on the tip of her tongue to enlighten him. But at the same time she was truly angry with herself for not identifying herself immediately. Unfortunately she had quite forgotten the one characteristic that she shared with her beautiful sister, the characteristic that had even confused and startled her mother-that soft, slightly husky voice which was so entirely beguiling when it issued from Sylvia's lovely lips. She opened her mouth on a hasty denial and hastily swallowed it. She said instead, "But, Quatre, dear, you knew I must."

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**End Notes**: Alright, I believe I should specify titles and why I am changing them halfway through the story. Lord and Lady Maxwell are the Lord and Lady of Orville. Therefore, you can call them Lord and Lady Maxwell instead of Lord and Lady Orville. Quatre and Relena are the Lord and Lady of Marne, therefore they can be referred to as Lord and Lady Marne or Lord and Lady Winner. Heero and Sylvia are the Lord and Lady ofLudlow but for the purposes of this chapter, they are Lord and Lady Yuy instead of Lord and Lady Ludlow.

Would you guys like it more if I referred to the Orvilles as Lord and Lady Maxwell or Lord and Lady Orville? I will keep it Orville for this chapter but please state your preference.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter and as always, review please. )


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